


If I Lay Here

by owlmug



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game), Life Is Strange 2 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-03-05 06:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmug/pseuds/owlmug
Summary: Sean and Finn embark on a journey to find Daniel. They'll discover a lot more along the way.





	1. first step

Sean stumbles through a forest. He can't see anything; not the trees, not the sky, not his own feet, pounding against the ground. He runs and he runs but from what—to where—he does not know.

Voices. Familiar voices. Finn and Cassidy, somewhere in the darkness. Are they who he’s looking for? Sean runs even faster, hurtling towards those voices. Unseen branches catch on his clothes, scratch at his face, but he keeps going. _Keep going_.

"A clinic? Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!" Cassidy shouts. That phrase echoes through the forest, ringing through Sean's ears. For the first time in days— _months? years?_ —he stands completely still.

"I know what I'm doin', Cass."

"Like with Merrill's safe?"

"Don't—"

"They could'a ID'd him, Finn!"

"Without half his face?!" Finn's voice is a stormcloud rolling over the forest, unseen but keenly felt. Electricity surges through the air, raising the hairs on Sean's arms. He searches blindly for his friends, but he can't see, there's only darkness.

His eye blinks open, and suddenly Sean is laying on his back beneath some old junker, holding a flashlight for his father. It casts a yellow circle on dim and dusty car parts, and his father fastens a bolt in the circle's center.

 _Perfect_ , Dad says. _Hold it right there_.

Only, Sean isn't beneath that car. He's lying in a tent. His tent. The world is filled with sunlight, but his vision is half dark. He looks around and the flashlight swivels. His own eye is a small, solitary spotlight, and he can only see where the circle lands.

"I thought it through," Finn says, somewhere outside the tent. His tone is calmer, but strained. Since when does Finn worry about anything? "I _did_ , Cass. His eye could’a been infected!"

"Oh, that’s right Finn, you’re his big, strong hero. I’m sure he’ll send yuh a real nice thank-you card from prison."

Prison?

 _No_ , Sean thinks. _No, wait, I can't go to prison!_ He has to run. He has to take care of Daniel-

 _Daniel_.

The safe. Finn's plan. Daniel, disarming Merrill—Sean tackling Merrill to the ground. A handgun tumbles out of his pocket. Merrill seizes it, takes aim-

_Daniel's been shot!_

Sean sits bolt upright. His head screams in protest, dragging him back to the ground like thick mud swallowing a boot.

"Finn..." he calls. His mouth is dry. He tries again, wheezing. Desperate. "Finn...!"

"Oh, shit. He's awake."

" _Fuck_."

Sean hears the zipper of his tent roll upwards, then the crinkling of a tarp on dirt ground as Finn crawls inside. He takes the spot where Daniel should be—right here, _right here beside Sean_ —and places a heavy hand on Sean's torso.

"I'm here."

"Daniel... Finn, please, you have to... Daniel..."

"Shhh, it's gonna be alright. I promise."

 _Promise_. Sean made so many promises. To Dad. To Daniel. He's broken them all, just like- just like-

He's so dizzy. The spotlight swivels again, like unsteady hands beneath that old junker. Try as he might, Sean cannot fix the spotlight on Finn. A flat palm on his chest—so solid, so warm—is the only way he knows Finn is there.

"My head hurts..." he croaks. Fingers card through his hair.

"I know, sweetheart. Just rest, okay?"

Rest. Yes. The flashlight is losing battery. The world, slowly consumed by darkness.

 _Please don't leave_ , Sean wants to say, but the words won't come. Still, the hand on his chest remains.

 

*

 

Sean doesn't remember the clinic. Or anything from the night of the heist.

"Wait, nothin’ at all?" Finn asks. His whole body goes stiff. He looks exactly nothing like himself; Finn should always have loose shoulders and an easy smile. A beer in one hand and Sean's knee in the other. Sean flushes.

"No, I meant- I don't remember anything after... Daniel lost it. I remember the other stuff. The, uh... before stuff."

Finn visibly relaxes. "Oh. Good."

He takes up a long stick and pokes at their campfire. Embers swirl into the air. Finn watches them, his face awash in orange light. There's something distant in his gaze, something small and secretive, and for a moment he looks... calm. Steady. Certain. He is a sunset at the edge of the lake. A quiet moment at the fringe of a party, where the music is a distant heartbeat.

"Yeah, _good_ ," Cassidy snaps. "That means you remember all the stupid shit you pulled."

Sean falls hard into the present, pulled by the gravity of her words. Panic, dread, guilt and sorrow swarm him like insects the moment he hits the ground. Thinking about Finn—about Finn's breath in his mouth and Finn's hands on his thigh—was just a distraction. A dream.

No. Not a dream, but the brief moment of waking between nightmares, when you feel safe and warm in your bed before the darkness drags you back down.

It's been four days since the heist—since Daniel blew Merrill's house to hell. Finn says he woke up first. Dragged Sean into their stolen truck. Made it back to camp. Everyone scattered. If Big Joe is looking for them—if Merrill is even alive—Finn does not know.

"And Daniel?" Sean asks. His head is pounding. He wants to rub his eye but all he'll find is gauze and surgical tape. Sean sits on his hands.

"We looked," is all Finn can say. He won't meet Sean's gaze. He pokes again at the fire. This camp is smaller than their old one; no fancy coffee machine, no shower, no generator. Only three tents and backpacks. Only what they could carry.

Sean spent the next two days unconscious. On the third, Finn took him to a clinic. The medics stitched up his eye and gave Finn two bottles of pills; antibiotics to ward off infection, and tranquilizers for the pain. Finn says Sean was awake for some of it, floating in an out of consciousness and talking to people no one else could see. Sean doesn't remember anything before he woke in his tent. He wonders if this is how Daniel feels about Seattle. Lost in the dark.

"Did you ask them about Daniel? He got... I saw Merrill shoot him."

"And whose fault is that?!" says Cassidy. Her words are like a baseball bat to Sean's chest, caving in his lungs. He reels from the pain of it. Sean is used to being kicked when he's down, but this is worse. So much worse. It's like he's been hobbled, barely able to move, and Cassidy slammed into him with a car.

"Maybe..." The words are so hard to say. But Sean has to say them. He has to keep moving, no matter how much it hurts. "Maybe he... he went to the clinic... for help. If he talked to them, they could tell us... where he..."

Finn's expression is a pair of hands wrapped around Sean's throat. His words choke. His breath staggers. He can't get any air.

Of course Finn asked about Daniel. But Daniel is gone. Daniel doesn't want to be found.

Sean doubles over. His fingers twist into the fabric of his hoodie, clutching, tearing. He wants to rip himself apart. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He does both.

Strong arms wrap around him. Not just Finn's, but Cassidy's, too. They let Sean sob out his grief and anguish, his sorrow and anger and despair. He cries because his father should be alive, and he cries because Daniel should be here and happy and whole. He cries because the world is unfair. He cries because it's all his fault.

And when he can't cry anymore, when his throat is raw and his eyelashes, crusty with salt, there's sleep. Pills. Gulps of water. Shuddering breath in his lungs and soothing fingers in his hair.

He's a kid again, awake in the middle of the night. He shivers and sweats beneath the blankets, his whole body burning with a fever.

_Here, little wolf. Drink this._

Sticky, overly-sweet medicine oozes down his throat. It coats his tongue and sticks to the roof of his mouth, making him whine in protest. A hand smooths across his brow. Sean twists an arm free from his damp sheets and catches that hand.

Karen's hand. She kisses his sweaty palm and places it on her own stomach.

 _Why won’t he kick?_ Sean croaks.

 _He's asleep. And you should be, too. Close your eyes, little wolf_.

Sean wakes with Finn's arm draped over his shoulder. It's a good, comforting weight. Like an anchor. Like a blanket. Sean rolls to his side. Finn lets out a slight groan, shaken from sleep by the movement. His mouth twists into a smile, but his eyes remain shut.

"Mornin', sweetheart," he drawls.

"Arizona," Sean replies.

"What?"

"If Daniel could anywhere, he'd go to Arizona."

"Hang on... Ol' Finn's a little slow 'fore he’s had his coffee..." Finn's arm unwinds from around Sean—the place where their skin touched is suddenly too cold. He props himself on his elbow, staring down at Sean. "What's this 'bout Arizona?"

"That's where Daniel is going. He wants to meet his mom."

"You sayin'... You wanna track down your long-lost momma? To find Daniel?"

"I know, it sounds stupid. But it's all I've got, Finn. I have to try."

"Alright," Finn says, reaching down towards the door of the tent. His shoes are there, and quickly pulled on. "Guess we're goin' to Arizona."

A flutter in Sean's chest. It almost feels like hope. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean... It's our best shot of findin' him, ain’t it?"

"Finn..." Sean sits up, placing a hand on Finn's shoulder and squeezing it tight. " _Thank you_. I can't... I couldn't do this by myself."

Finn twists just enough to capture Sean's cheek and place a kiss on his lips. "'Course, sweetie. To the end and shit, right?"

"R-Right..." Sean replies. Heat rises into his face.

They're mostly packed by the time Cassidy wakes. Sean explains everything while Finn folds up their tent.

"Arizona? That’s your big plan?" Cassidy says, both arms folded across her chest. Sean makes a small sound of frustration.

"It’s a long shot, but if we can just-"

"No, Sean." Cassidy shakes her head. "There's no 'we' this time. I'm out."

"Cass, please. Help me, for Daniel."

"No, you don't need—or _want_ —my help. You two made that _very_ clear." She steps backward, gesturing between the two boys. "I said it was a dumb idea, but none'a you wanted tuh listen. You took a _fucking kid_ up against heavy rifles, and now you're surprised he ran away?!"

Another blow, just as hard as the one before. At least this time Sean remains upright. He reaches for something, anything, to strike Cassidy back, to make her hurt as much as he hurts.

"Is this why you stuck around?! To lecture me?!"

"I stuck around to make sure you wouldn't die," Cassidy says, jabbing a finger at Sean. "And now that you're okay-"

Okay?! He only has one fucking eye!

"-I'm done. This is as far I go."

"Cass, listen—I know I fucked up. But Daniel's not the one who should have to pay for it."

"Too late," she says, turning towards her tent. Sean has seen her fight with Hannah enough times to know that this is the part where Cassidy takes up her guitar and vents her frustration with pointed lyrics and rhyming insults. But she doesn't—she doesn't reach for her guitar. It's not here. She must have left it when they ran.

Sean's head is pounding. He needs to sit down. But he won't. He won't let her think she's getting to him. Won't let her think that he cares.

"Can't force her to stay with us," Finn says passively, winding a length of chord. He doesn't look at either of them. "We all gotta... Follow our own path, right?"

Something prickles at the back of Sean's neck. "That’s bullshit, Finn. You know she’s fucking ditching us, the way she ditches everyone."

Cassidy whirls back around.

"The ink is dry, Sean!" She taps a tattoo on her arm. "It stings now, but it'll heal. Trust me."

"Not everything heals!"

Not everyone can be reduced to ink. Sean knows. He’s tried. Everywhere he's been, every person he's ever cared about—he sketched them all with pen and ink, with quick strokes and hard lines. He captured everything, and yet nothing.

"People are more than just little pictures for you to carry around," Sean says.

Cassidy holds his gaze for a long moment. Her jaw tightens. Maybe she wants to say something. To argue. To apologize.

Instead, she crawls inside her tent and zips up the door.

Sean turns on his heel. He storms to the truck, the one he and Finn— _and Daniel_ —stole from Big Joe. He sits in the passenger seat with his head between his knees.

It's not long before Finn finishes packing. Sean can hear him securing their gear; feels him ease into the driver's seat. A hand strokes between his shoulder blades.

"You gonna be alright, sweetie?"

"Let's just go," Sean replies, refusing to sit up.

Finn doesn't need to be told twice.


	2. second step

Though Daniel has almost a week's head start, Sean and Finn move slowly. They make a lot of stops, keeping their questions vague and their ears open. Every now and again, they catch a story about strange activity. A kid, traveling alone. An explosion no one can explain.

Sean worries all the time. About everything. Is Daniel eating? Is he hurt? Did he get the bullet out of his arm? Where does he sleep? How does he pay for anything?

"Maybe he grabbed some'a the cash 'fore he ran," Finn says. There's something off in his tone. Probably guilt. Neither he nor Sean like to talk about that night. Sean lets out a humorless laugh.

"Fucking great! A little kid, all alone, with a bag full of cash. I feel so much better." Sean draws his knees into his chest, his feet pressed hard against the dashboard. "He's gonna get himself killed."

"Nah, man, he's gonna be fine. Trust me. He's, like, a walkin' Uzi or some shit!" Finn actually lifts his hands away from the steering wheel to gesture wildly.

"Having a gun doesn't make you invincible," Sean mutters. "It didn't stop Daniel from getting hurt."

"Whaddya mean?" Finn's eyes flick between Sean and the road.

"Nothing," Sean says. Finn doesn’t press him, but the shame rising up in Sean’s chest won’t let him stay silent. Sean rocks his heel against the glove compartment. "I, uh... I took a handgun out of Merrill's safe. It fell out of my pocket when I tackled him... That's how... That's how he shot Daniel."

Sean lifts his foot and lets it drop against the dashboard. The glove compartment bounces open, but no one closes it. Finn is quiet for a long time.

"Maybe if you used it, things would'a been different," he says carefully.

"Yeah, maybe we'd all be dead," Sean glowers.

They stop at three more gas stations before pulling over for the night. No leads. No sign of Daniel.

"I dunno 'bout you, but I am _bushed_ ," Finn says, punctuating his sentence with a yawn. He makes a show of slapping himself across the face to stay awake.

"Yeah, alright," is Sean’s muted reply. He wishes he could help drive, but his eye and his meds simply won’t let him. "Let's just sleep in the truck. I don’t feel like setting up the tent."

"I'll do you one better," Finn says, rounding into the parking lot of a cheap motel. The tires crunch against loose gravel as they park beneath a flickering _Vacancy_ sign.

"Finn, no."

They can’t _stop_. Not like this. Not so completely. Gas stations, public restrooms, quick naps by the side of the road—those are temporary. A quick breath between wind sprints. That’s how it has it be. Sean cannot stop, Sean cannot _rest_ , until Daniel is safe.

But Finn is already out of the truck and rushing to Sean's door, which he opens with a bow. His dreadlocks bounce as he dips his head. "Your luxury suite awaits, m'lady."

"Finn, we can’t stay here. We got a long way to go, and gas isn't free."

"Don't I know it, sweetheart! But the road ain't worth travelin' without a few sights, right? Pit stops are part'a the journey, too."

Sean's face darkens. "This isn't a road trip. We're looking for my brother, not going to _fucking_ Disneyland."

"Oh shit, we should totally go to Disneyland!" Finn says, using a particular tone that is both completely serious, and not serious at all. "Get Daniel on them teacups, spin 'im around 'til we all puke!"

Sean grabs the door and slams it shut, effectively separating them. He stares hard out the windshield. After a moment's pause, Finn knocks on the window just inches from Sean's ear.

"Sean, come on." His laughter is gone. "I geddit. Let's just crash for a few hours. Sleep in a real bed. Take a real shower. Remember showers, Sean? Then we'll get back on the road."

Sean stares at the _Vacancy_ sign. Insects bounce off its stuttering light.

This is so stupid.

Fucking _fine_.

He opens the door. Doesn't take Finn's hand when he offers it. Doesn't let Finn carry his bag.

The hotel room reeks of cleaning solution, yet almost everything is broken and dirty. The AC blasts cold, metallic air that stings between Sean's teeth. There are two beds with stiff blankets, and Sean takes the one nearest the window. He throws his backpack with more force than necessary and sinks into the foot of the bed.

"Someone needs his painkillers," Finn says too cheerfully. He kneels between Sean’s legs and offers him the bottle.

"I'm fine," Sean snaps. But he's not. He's not fine, and he'll never be fine again.

Finn grins. The tattoos under his left eye curve upwards in a way that Sean usually finds endearing, but right now Sean can't stand to look at him.

The bottle opens with a distinct rattle. Finn pinches a small, white pill between his forefinger and thumb, and brings it to his lips. Annoyance prickles along Sean’s scalp. Fucking junkie. Stealing painkillers from a one-eyed teenager.

But then—Finn's free hand glides up Sean's arm, ghosts over his neck and settles, at last, behind his head. Sean’s brain is suddenly too crowded, all of his thoughts racing, tripping, colliding together. He doesn’t know what Finn is doing, but he knows what he _hopes_ Finn is doing.

Finn pulls him down, crashing their lips together.

And everything... everything just _stops_. The anger. The guilt. The sorrow and desperation. Every thought scrambling through Sean’s head comes to a sharp and sudden stand-still, as if he is many people instead of just one, all of them holding their breath.

He floats in this feeling for a moment. This free, suspended feeling. He doesn't need to think right now, not with Finn's clever mouth charting the course.

Finn's other hand (god, how did Sean forget about that hand?) settles on the inside of Sean's thigh. Heat pools below Sean’s belly as Finn’s thumb rubs back and forth, gently, hopefully—so close, so _unbearably close_ to his dick.

Finn's tongue slides into Sean's mouth, and Sean wants it so badly, he whines. He leans into the kiss, grasping Finn's shirt with both hands, needing to be closer. He hasn't- He's never- There's a sign that says _No Trespassing_ , but Sean jumps over the fence anyway. He wants to chase this feeling, has to know what lies on the other side.

He opens his mouth wider, giving Finn deeper access. He can taste Finn in the back of his throat, smell Finn's breath without inhaling.

 _He has a tongue piercing_ , Sean thinks. But no—it's not a piercing at all. It's the pill Finn didn't swallow. And when Finn pulls away, it remains in Sean's mouth.

Sean could spit it out, if he wanted. But he doesn't. Finn beams with pride and affection.

"You call Nurse Finn any time you want, okay honey?" he says. Finn stands up, curving his back into a full-body stretch. "Alright, I'm hittin' the shower. You holler if you need anythin'."

He strips, leaving his clothes right there on the floor. Sean tries not to stare. He thinks loudly about laundry. Yeah, they should do laundry while they can. Maybe this motel has a washing machine. If not, the sink will do just fine.

He hears the shower turn on at full blast, followed by a muffled _Hells yeah!_ from Finn. Sean can't help but laugh. It's a pleasant sensation, easing away the tightness in his chest. He falls back against the bed.

Finn doesn't have to be here. Doesn't have to drive to Arizona, doesn't have to coddle Sean and change his bandages and tolerate his moodswings. Sean has been... ungrateful. Ungrateful and difficult.

 _Admit it, dude_ , Sean thinks. _You've been a brat_.

That admission isn't half as humiliating as Sean expects it to be. In a strange way, he's actually proud of himself for realizing it, before Finn's patience reached its limit.

Sean sits up. Light from the bathroom pours through the crack under the door, spilling across the carpet and over Sean's shoes. He rises and walks forward, his body moving of its own accord. He slips into the bathroom without making a sound.

It's hot in here. Almost oppressively so. Steam hangs heavy in the air, obscuring Sean's vision and fogging the mirror.

There's a curtain drawn loosely around the shower. Sean can just make out Finn’s pink silhouette. He steps close to the shower, his heart hammering. One curtain. One thin sheet of plastic is all that divides him from Finn, naked and wet and warm...

This is different from the showers in gym class. So different. All his teammates wrapped in towels, talking, joking around—it never made Sean feel like this. Sure, there had always been... curiosity... but never _desire_.

Sean knocks on the wall. One heartbeat later, Finn pulls back the curtain. Rivulets of water roll down his chest—down— _down_ —

Sean's eye snaps upward. Finn turns off the spigot and the room goes so completely silent, Sean can hear himself swallow.

"Will you, um... help me?" he asks. "W- wash my hair, I mean."

"Don't wanna get soap in your eye?" Finn teases, but his smile drops the moment Sean goes rigid. "Sorry, man. That wasn't cool. I won't joke about it."

"Nah, it's..." Sean's head rocks from side to side. "It's okay. You're not wrong. I shouldn’t get my..." He waves vaguely towards his own face. "Shouldn’t get my stitches wet."

"I hear ya."

Sean kicks off his shoes. Discards his hoodie, his shirt, his socks. Even his pants and boxers crumple to the floor, but still he doesn't feel naked—not until he reaches for the bandage covering his eye. That's the hard part. The part that makes his fingers tremble. He peels back the tape and gauze and tosses them in the waste bin.

Finn places a hand on Sean's cheek, makes him turn sideways to better examine the wound. Sean suddenly feels too hot, too naked, too exposed.

"It looks so much better, baby," Finn whispers. His voice, like his touch, is tender and reassuring. "I'm talkin' _lightyears_ better."

Right. Finn saw it... before the bandages. When it was bruised and bloody and filled with glass.

"I'm just glad the mirror is foggy," Sean murmurs. He's not ready for his new reflection. Not yet.

"C’mere, sweetheart."

Finn tugs him into the shower. Sean faces the back wall, turned away from the cascading water. Finn stands behind him and washes his hair, making sure all the soap runs down Sean's back. He scrubs with firm but gentle fingers; massages his scalp, runs a washcloth behind his ears. Every movement is slow and languid, deliberate and sweet.

Sean closes his eye, lets the warmth and water become his whole world. Nothing exists outside this moment. There's nowhere to be and nothing to do, so it's okay to enjoy this. He can let himself _have_ this.

Finn's chest presses against his back. Sean leans into the embrace, allows Finn to support his weight. The hands that so expertly massaged his scalp are now running the length of torso, circling his nipples and tracing his collarbone, while soft lips trail kisses up his throat.

Sean doesn't know how to... reciprocate. Hell, it's all he can do just to stand. He wishes he was better at this, wishes he had more experience—but instead he just moans, trembling, shaking, _needing_.

How is this so much better than... than _everything_ he's done on his own? Better than every dirty magazine, every incognito tab, every lingering touch and soft giggle that followed him under the sheets and between his legs? All of those things left him sweaty and shaking, but this... this has him so hard, he might just come from kisses alone.

One hand roams significantly lower. It grips Sean by the hip, fingers delving into the curve of his pelvis.

"Yeah?" Finn whispers, his lips brushing against Sean's ear.

"Yeah," Sean heaves. He doesn't know what he's agreeing to, but he doesn't care. He'll follow this feeling anywhere.

That hand wraps around Sean's dick, giving him three long, slow strokes. Sean keels, folding at the waist, hands shooting out to steady himself against the shower wall. His thick, wet hair falls around his face like black curtains, crowding what remains of his vision.

Finn's body leans with him. Again and again he strokes the full length of Sean's shaft, thumb rubbing along the slit before moving back down. Finn's grip is slippery and tight and good—and Sean can feel Finn's dick rubbing against his ass.

It's too much.

Sean comes hard, spilling over Finn's hand and splattering against the shower wall. All the heat in his chest rushes to his face. He came too soon. Too easily. Finn's going to know he has no experience, no stamina, no _fucking clue_ —

But then Finn shudders against him, exhaling across Sean's ear, and with a rush of excitement, Sean realizes that Finn came, too. Finn came, and Sean didn't _do_ anything. He came just from touching Sean, from kissing Sean, from making Sean moan.

Breathless and tingling, Sean doesn't move. He stays right here, in this moment, for as long as he can, savoring every little sound, every small sensation. The drops of water beading from his hair. The way his cock twitches when Finn scrubs them both clean. The timbre of Finn’s voice as he whispers sweet words.

Later, after they've wrapped themselves in dry towels, Finn runs a comb through Sean's hair.

"Gettin' real shaggy there, sweetheart _._ I could cut it for you."

"Nah," Sean says. "I think I wanna grow it out, at least on my, uh... my bad side." He chews his lip. "I wanna cover it up, like a... rōnin... in some crappy anime."

"Dude! That'd be fuckin' hot!"

Soon, Finn clambers into bed, sprawling his limbs across the mattress. He lets out a long, contented sigh, his eyes already closed. There’s enough room for Sean, if he wants it.

 _This is one of those moments_ , Sean thinks. One of those moments where everything seems heavier. The importance of his choices, magnified. He can crawl into bed next to Finn, or curl up under the blankets alone. No matter which he chooses, he will be irrevocably changed.

"Next time, I get to be little spoon," Finn says, rolling sideways to fit Sean against his chest.

"Yeah, we’ll see," Sean chuckles. He relishes the arm draped over him, and more than that, he relishes how familiar the feeling has become.

It's good to have familiar things again. Steady things. Things that follow him besides guilt and bad memories.

For the first time in a long time, Sean feels okay. Maybe not happy, maybe not secure, but something close. Something very, very near.

And for now, it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're as excited for the next step of this journey as I am! I have it all mapped out, and I hope to make at least two updates a week until we reach the end.
> 
> It's going to be a fun ride!


	3. third step

There's always a moment, right after Sean wakes, when he forgets that he can't open both eyes. He struggles, panics, then _remembers_ —and in that moment, he loses his eye all over again.

He wonders if it will always be this way. If he’ll always wake up and have to… rediscover who he is.

Sean rolls beneath the blankets—beneath Finn's arm. Somehow, Finn doesn't wake. Sean finds himself nose to nose with Finn, pressed so close he can feel the slow expanse of Finn’s lungs.

Finn looks younger when he sleeps. The hard lines under his eyes smooth out, and the circles aren’t quite so dark. It's a sweet image, one Sean tries to capture in the sketchbook of his mind. But with his head pressed into a pillow and one of his eyes stitched shut, Sean feels as if he's looking at Finn through a keyhole.

Frustration flares through his veins. It starts off as a spark—his eyes are just one more thing he took for granted, one more thing he never appreciated until it was gone. His room. His friends. Dad and Daniel. That spark becomes anger, becomes guilt, becomes anguish, and soon Sean’s whole body is engulfed in flames.

This… _thing_ … Sean’s _blindness_ … It doesn’t belong to him. Not like his feelings for Finn. Those feelings are new, but natural, like little green buds pushing up through the dirt. The seeds have always been there; they just needed tending.

But the blindness belongs to someone else. Someone who came into the garden and dug hard into the earth, leaving behind trampled flowers and an ugly, gaping hole.

Finn shifts ever slightly. He lifts his arm, but the separation is brief. His hand settles on Sean’s head, thumb rubbing back and forth in that familiar, soothing motion.

Finn’s chest deflates with a long exhale. Warm breath washes over Sean’s nose and cheeks. Finn is awake, but he still hasn’t opened his eyes. Sean wonders if Finn could sense his anxiety—or if he can feel how fast Sean’s heart is beating now.

"Real glad you’re here, sweetie," Finn whispers. Sean doesn’t know if he means _here_ , in this bed, or if he simply means _alive_. Either way, Sean replies:

"Yeah. Me too."

Finn’s kiss is warm and welcome, soft and slow. Neither he nor Sean moves at all, save the languid exploration of their lips. Finn drags his bottom lip in a way that Sean tries to imitate, always pressing forward, never quite closing his mouth. But just as Sean starts to get the hang of it, Finn chuckles, and folds his leg over Sean’s hip.

Sean’s heart jumps to his throat. It feels good, being held this tightly. Like he’s something precious. Something Finn doesn’t want to lose. Sean can’t remember the last time he felt this important to anyone.

He deepens the kiss—or, tries to. He doesn’t really know how to do that, except by pressing his mouth harder against Finn’s. Finn responds with another low chuckle; an amused exhale escapes his nostrils. Sean scrambles to think of something better. Sexier.

He touches Finn’s leg. Follows the curve of his thigh all the way to Finn’s ass, and squeezes it roughly.

Finn breaks their kiss with another exhale—this one through the mouth. His dick pulses between them. Actually nudges Sean with a distinct, unmistakable twitch. Adrenaline spikes from Sean’s balls to his brain.

Sean is falling. Spiraling. He’s never felt so dizzy while laying so still. They’re going to… Something’s going to _happen_.

Sean waits for the… the next step. For Finn to move his hands or grind his hips or… or whatever you’re supposed to do, when you’re chest to chest and crotch to crotch with the first guy you’ve ever kissed.

But Finn doesn’t lean back in.

"Well, good mornin’ to you too," he says. "Talk 'bout rise an’ shine."

He presses a quick kiss to Sean’s forehead, then pulls away. Rises out of bed and scoops his pants off the floor, and it’s like a splash of water on a campfire. The flames sputter and hiss, and suddenly there’s just cold air where Finn’s warmth should be.

"Uh, y- yeah," Sean says, trying to laugh like he understands. Like he’s in on the joke. But he’s not. He’s stumbling in the dark again, lost and alone. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pulls on a pair of ragged jeans. His dick strains against the zipper.

What the fuck just happened?

Grabbing Finn’s ass—was that wrong? It must have been. It was clumsy, and stupid and… a total fucking mood killer. Sean wants to melt onto the floor and ooze under the bed. He wants to fall into a deep hole and bury himself alive.

Breakfast is handfuls of cereal eaten straight from the box. Sean holds it between his knees while their truck rattles down the highway, and every few minutes Finn will reach over and plunge his whole hand inside. He tilts back his head and lets the cereal fall into his open mouth.

Finn always drives like this. Distracted. Hands moving. If he’s not flipping through Big Joe’s CDs or digging into his backpack, he’s noticing every sign and fruit stand and oddly shaped rock on the roadside. He actually cranes his neck to catch the things he’s missed.

 _Eyes on the road_ , Sean thinks, in a voice that sounds a lot like his dad. He doesn’t say it out loud, though. At least Finn doesn’t drive when he’s baked.

They pull into a busy gas station; it's bigger than any Sean has seen, with an actual convenience store attached to it. The door lets out an automated _bing-bong_ when they enter, but no one notices or cares.

Finn walks straight to the back of the store, where a revolving bookcase displays ninety-nine cent novels. Sean’s mouth curves into a half-smile. It’s cute how Finn grabs the books two at a time. He likes to read their back covers, set aside the ones that look promising, and then flip to the middle of each story.

"Why not start at the beginning?" Sean asks.

"Middle’s where it gets good," Finn replies, his eyes never leaving the page.

He’ll be at it for a while. Sean wanders away to explore the gas station and listen for clues about Daniel. He scans a stack of newspapers; no reports of strange activity, unexplained explosions. This fills Sean with equal parts relief and misery. He’s desperate for a sign— _any_ sign—that Daniel is alive, but at least he hasn’t made the front page.

Whispering. Hushed, fervent whispering. The kind that makes cold dread creep up Sean’s neck, the kind that makes him want to sprint for the door. He’s been recognized. They’re going to call the cops.

His gaze flicks upward. The whispers belong to a pair of children, both around Daniel’s age. One of them points to the fresh gauze taped over his eye, while the other whispers, " _Ewww_ …"

A woman rushes over, herding the children away.

" _Don’t stare_! Sorry," she adds, not really looking Sean in the face.

He wants to say _It’s fine_ , but he has no strength. Everything has fallen out of him, leaving him hollow. Not numb, just… empty.

Is that how Daniel will look at him?

Finn is at the register, his whole back curved into an arch as he leans on the counter. He’s talking to the cashier; she makes a joke that Sean doesn’t catch, and Finn laughs.

"Yeah, kids can be stupid," Finn says as Sean draws up beside him. Finn drapes an arm over Sean’s shoulder and something… scratches at the back of Sean’s mind. Something unpleasant, like hackles raised on a dog’s neck.

One by one, the cashier swipes a stack of books across her scanner. They all have dark covers and titles written in red. Murder mysteries, Sean assumes. His brow crinkles. It’s not a small stack.

"Five?"  he asks. He’s already doing the math. Five books, ninety-nine cents each. A dollar seven after tax. Add that to what they’ve already spent today, subtract from what they have left…

"Yeah, I shouldn’t’a started readin’ ‘em," Finn grins. "I already figured out who done it, and now I need to know if I’m right."

This is such a poor excuse to waste money that suddenly, Sean wants to do… something. Something irresponsible. Selfish. Something he couldn’t do if Daniel were here, something he doesn’t have to share with Finn.

"I’ll take a pack of cigarettes," he says, nodding to a glass case behind the cashier. Her eyes roam from his hands to his face. Lingers on his left side. She hesitates—her mouth makes a strange movement.

"I can’t sell them to minors," she says at last. Sean’s throat goes unbearably tight.

"It’s on me, sweetheart," says Finn, already digging for his wallet. He slides his driver’s license and a ten-dollar bill across the counter. As the cashier finishes ringing him up, Sean has no choice but to just stand there, waiting, like some fucking kid getting a new toy.

There’s not a lot of talking in the car. Not from Sean, at least. Finn rambles about everything; the books he just bought, the billboards overhead. Big Joe’s shitty taste in music. How badly he wants to get high.

Sean _hmm_ ’s and _uh-huh_ ’s in all the right places, but he isn’t in this truck. He’s back in the hotel room, under the sheets. Under Finn. They're entwined together, hearts pounding, dicks throbbing—and then it all stops. Finn pulls away.

 _Kids can be stupid_.

Sean must seem so… _childish_ to Finn. So awkward and immature. Finn has no patience for beginnings, he wants to jump straight to the middle, where things get good. But Sean isn’t there yet, he doesn’t know how… Doesn’t know what to _do_. How to kiss, how to move, where to touch…

Well, okay. He has _some_ ideas. He’s not completely clueless. But theory is totally different than practice. How fucking humiliating would it be if he did it… wrong?

"Hello? Ground Control to Major Sean?"

"Huh?" Sean sits up straighter, suddenly aware of the truck’s rumbling tires and the static in the radio. Finn lets out a low laugh.

"I said—do we need to pull over? Rest stop comin’ up."

"Yeah…" Sean rubs at his temple. His head is starting to hurt. "I need water, for my pills."

"Your wish is my command."

The public restroom is small and relatively clean; it looks like a box made of concrete. A homeless man props himself against it, curled up next to a garbage bag filled with his possessions. He doesn’t seem to notice their approach. He only mutters to himself and slaps the side of his head, as if there’s a bug crawling inside his ear. If Daniel were here, Sean would tell him to stay away—and this thought makes his whole body heavy with guilt.

Sean knows he has no right to judge. He’s homeless, too. He’s been homeless for a long time. Slept in carboard boxes and eaten out of dumpsters. The only difference between him and that man is another decade out on the road.

Sean enters the bathroom with his gaze pointed down. He only looks up when he realizes that there’s nothing above the sink. He fills his water bottle, swallows his meds. Spends a long, quiet moment leaning against the basin, his forehead pressed where the mirror should be.

Outside, Finn is sitting on the ground, talking to the homeless man. Discomfort ripples through Sean, though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Finn talks to everybody. Finn _likes_ everybody.

"Hey Sean!" Finn says, waving him over. Sean tries to smile.

"Hey. You, uh…" His shoulders rock uneasily. "You ready to go?"

"In a bit," Finn replies. "We was just talkin’ ‘bout the end’a days."

The homeless man blinks hard, his head jerking like an engine that won’t start. "There will be reckoning!" he says urgently.

"Uh… right." A morose smile tugs at Sean’s mouth. "Any day now, probably."

The man looks briefly at Sean before twitching again. "The chosen walk among us. I know. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the boy."

Sean’s whole body goes still. Suddenly, he’s afraid to move, afraid to even speak, as if the smallest sound might frighten this moment away.

"What boy?" Finn asks. The homeless man turns to him. It’s like he can see Finn in a way he can’t see Sean.

"The boy who embodies His will!" Sean can actually hear the capital _H_ in the word _His_. "Whose hands command the wind! His footsteps are a storm. His shout, the thunderclap!"

"You saw him?!" The words burst out of Sean. "The boy—you saw him? Here?"

"On this is holy ground." The man runs his palms across the concrete.

Sean is lightheaded, dizzy with relief. Daniel was here. _Right here_. In this very spot.

"When did you see him? Was he with anyone? Do you know which way he went?"

The man shakes his head, as if to rattle Sean’s questions out of his skull.

"Easy there, _hombre_ ," Finn says, gripping the man’s shoulder. He meets Sean’s eye for half a second. "Can you tell us what the boy looked like?"

"Like a flood, come to wash the world clean."

Finn nods. "Right on, right on… But I was thinkin’ more like, what color was his hair?"

The man can’t tell them anything definitive. Still, it’s more information than Sean’s had in days. He thanks the man with granola bars and a handful of bills. Finn offers to drive him into the next town, but he doesn’t want to leave the "holy ground."

"Shit, all that for the dirt under Daniel’s feet?" Finn says, once they’re back on the road. "Can you imagine what he’d do if we, like… gave ‘im one’a Daniel’s old socks?" Finn makes a sound like an explosion. "Blow his fuckin’ mind."

They hear similar stories in the next town; and the one after that. Over the next few days, two things become clear: Daniel is becoming more reckless with his powers, and he is definitely not heading to Arizona. His path, instead, goes decidedly East, leading Sean and Finn deeper and deeper into Nevada. Sean doesn’t know why, or what Daniel could be searching for. Once the trail goes cold, Sean will have no idea where to look next.

"Where the _fuck_ is he going?" Sean says, not for the first time. He leans close to a map posted at a disused rest stop, but it’s impossible to discern beneath layers of graffiti. Sean lets out a frustrated sound and turns away, kicking at the dirt.

"We need to get a map from this fucking century," Sean grumbles. When Finn doesn’t reply, Sean says it louder. "We need a map of Nevada, dude."

Finn answers with a mild, "Uh-huh." He’s in the back of the truck, a book in one hand and joint in the other. Looks like they’ll be here for at least an hour. A bake-break, Finn calls it.

"So, uh… Who done it?" Sean asks, climbing into the truck bed with Finn. They sit propped against the rear window, their legs stretched out in front of them. Finn takes another drag of his blunt and exhales slowly.

"The sister-in-law," he says. "Fuckin’ called it."

Sean makes a noncommittal _hmm_. He wonders if he’s supposed to be impressed.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"What do you mean?" Sean’s brow creases. Finn looks up from his book but doesn’t close it.

"You just seem a little off, is all."

"I’ve lost my brother and half my face. My whole _life_ is off."

"Fair 'nuff," Finn replies, turning back to his book. But something in his tone leaves the conversation feeling… unfinished.

Sean casts his gaze around the rest stop. It’s a nice afternoon—a nice spot, too, small but secluded. Judging by the old-ass band stickers covering the picnic table, Sean and Finn are the first people to visit this place in a least a decade.

Warm air drifts through the trees. Sean tries to enjoy it, but he doesn’t really enjoy anything these days. The clear skies, the rustling leaves; these are just facts, emotionless and dry, like sound without music. Food without taste.

He tries to think of something to do. What did he used to do? Look after Daniel. Talk to Daniel. Argue with Daniel. So much of his life has been consumed by Daniel’s wants and needs that without him, Sean isn’t really sure what’s left.

He could smoke, or… or…

"Why don’t you draw somethin’," says Finn.

"I don’t want to," is Sean’s flat reply.

"Dude, you ain’t even looked at your sketchbook since… y’know."

"Yeah, no shit," Sean snaps. "You ever try to draw with one eye? You fucking _can’t_."

His depth perception, his sense of perspective—all of that was blown to hell the moment Sean lost his eye. Drawing without it would be like holding his pen in the wrong hand, the lines ugly and unfamiliar. Just like his reflection.

Finn sets down his book. Keeps the blunt. He thinks for a long moment, smoke curling from his mouth.

"Sean… You didn’t draw to make the pages pretty. You did it to figure out… what’s… in here." He taps the place on Sean’s hoodie that covers his heart. The place he touched right before their first kiss. "Like math, or somethin'. Addin’ up the parts that make Sean."

There’s a lump in Sean’s throat that he can’t swallow. He looks down, hands gripped tight over his knees.

"I… I can’t, Finn. I’m not… _ready_ … to see what it looks like."

There’s a brief pause of complete silence. Even the wind has gone still. Then Sean hears a distinct rustling; Finn, digging through his backpack. After a moment’s search, he offers Sean a black marker.

"Draw on me," he says.

"W-What?"

"Draw on me," Finn echoes. He lays his forearm in Sean’s lap. "The sketchbook’s, like, sacred text, right? That’s what’s stressin’ you out, sweetie. You don’t wanna start somethin’ you don’t like, and have’ta tear out the page. Crumple it up. But if you draw on me…" Finn shucks off his rings and bracelets, giving Sean a clean canvas. "It’ll all wash off. No pressure. Just art."

Sean rolls the marker between his hands. Stares down at Finn’s open palm. His thoughts drift to his house in Seattle, the sun-soaked porch where he and Lyla shared their afternoons.

 _Don’t move!_ she says, smoothing out his hand. _You’re my human post-it note_.

Sean begins by tracing Finn’s tattoos. He copies them exactly, his pen creating fresh lines where the ink has long faded. Finn drags from his blunt and tilts his head back, eyes closed.

New shapes begin to flow from Sean's pen, filling the blank spaces between each tattoo. He draws a spiral in the center of Finn’s palm, tightly coiled. That spiral becomes rings around Finn’s fingers; bold, thick loops that blacken his nails.

Next comes a chain, binding Finn’s wrist. A heartbeat flutters there, steady and alive. As Sean winds the chain higher, up and up Finn’s forearm, the links grow stronger, thicker, harder to break. 

At the soft divot of Finn’s elbow, the chain transforms into a vine. The vine splits, becoming many, thorn-covered tendrils, all twisting together as they climb ever higher towards Finn’s shoulder. Sean rolls up the sleeve when he reaches it, but it’s not enough. He needs more. A bigger canvas.

"Take off your shirt," Sean says. Finn complies, easing the fabric over his head and shoulders. The ink smears when his arm slips through, but that’s okay. Sean doesn’t need to keep this drawing.

He crawls over Finn’s lap and straddles his waist, knees planted on each side of Finn’s hips. Finn remains undisturbed. He just sits there with his head leaned back, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. He almost looks asleep, only moving to bring the joint to his lips. When he exhales, the smoke shoots directly upwards, like a geyser. Like a runaway train.

The vines spill over Finn’s shoulder and crash against his neck. There, Sean finds another pulse; he lets the vines run down, twisting along Finn’s collarbone until they finally reach his heart.

Sean stops. Hesitates. His pen hovers there, unmoving.

He leans back ever slightly, taking in what he’s done. The whorls on Finn’s hand. The chain, the twisted brambles. Finn’s throat, and mouth, and naked chest. His jeans, hanging so low and so loose that Sean can see the divot of his hips.

And the outline of his dick.

Sean stares. Finn is so hard that Sean can make out the exact size and shape of his cock. The fabric _stirs_ , seemingly on its own, and it’s so hot—so _fucking_ hot—that Sean’s own dick twitches with interest.

 _Dude, be chill. Don’t fuck it up this time_.

Carefully, cautiously, Sean presses a kiss to Finn’s throat.

Finn makes a low hum of approval. Emboldened, Sean lays a trail of kisses up his neck, his jaw, his chin. He comes to rest, at last, on Finn’s lips, and his mouth floods with the taste of weed.

Sean drops the marker. It rolls… somewhere. Doesn’t matter. His flat palms explore Finn’s chest, finding it hairless, smooth, and lightly toned—so similar and yet so different from his own. He feels the subtle curves of Finn’s abdomen. The quickening of his heartbeat. Soft nipples, pebbling beneath his thumb.

There’s so much of—everything. So much for Sean to learn. His brain scrambles to memorize it all, like cramming the night before a test. His mouth never stops moving, pressing kiss after kiss to Finn’s lips. Finn’s hand slips behind Sean’s head and holds him there. He returns each kiss with equal enthusiasm, so, Sean must be doing _something_ right. He lets himself explore lower, down to the waistband of Finn’s pants.

Sean fumbles with the button. He exhales, frustrated, but keeps kissing, afraid of losing his momentum. He twists the fabric just above Finn’s zipper, but the damn button still won’t open. He tugs harder. It—won’t— _fucking_ —

"Sorry," Sean says, breaking the kiss to look down. His whole face is on fire. His eye strains on that stupid button, until it finally comes loose. A low laugh rumbles in Finn’s chest.

"Ain’t a race to the finish line," he says. Sean’s face only burns hotter.

"Don’t laugh at me," he says. Finn cups his chin.

"Nobody’s laughin’ at’chu, baby."

Sean shakes his head out of Finn’s grasp. "I know that I’m…" His shoulders roll. He can’t look at Finn’s face, so he just stares at the button between his fingers. " _Fuck_ —I know that I’m bad at this."

He doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing. Where he’s going. His whole life is covered in fog. He never knows if his feet are going to find solid ground, or send him tumbling over a cliff.

"Sean." Finn finally discards his blunt, flicking it into the dirt. Both of his hands settle on Sean’s hips. "You got the steerin’ wheel'a this thing. All the way. We’ll go at your pace, okay?"

There’s something in Finn’s tone that makes Sean look up. Finn’s expression is… tired. Almost sad. The lines under his eyes are deeper. The circles, darker.

It’s a sobering sight. Sean’s frustration and embarrassment melts into something else, something akin to sympathy—only warier.

"Have you, um… Done something like this before?" he asks carefully.

Finn doesn’t answer right away. His arms slide around to Sean’s back, forming a circle around Sean’s waist.

"Yeah, kinda. I never hooked up with someone younger’in me, but I, uh… been with older guys."

Sean hesitates. "How much older?"

"Don’t matter," Finn says too quickly. "I ain’t carryin’ it around."

Isn’t he? His arms are awfully tight.

Finn shakes his head. "What I’m sayin’ is, things can get real shitty, real quick, when you… feel like you gotta keep up, go faster… or whatever. I don’t wanna be one’a your regrets."

"Is that why you, um… slammed the brakes on me? In the hotel room?" Sean’s gaze is on his own hands, resting upon Finn’s bare chest. He watches the lines of ink shift with each small movement.

"Oh… yeah. That. I kinda got this vibe like you were… I dunno. Like you were doin’ it ‘cause you thought you had to, not ‘cause you wanted to."

 _Fuck_. Sean’s head rolls back, his eye shut tight. "That wasn’t it, dude. I wanted to, I just… didn’t know how."

"’Sokay not to know. And ‘sokay to… take your time, figurin’ it out."

Sean inhales. Slow. Deep. When he finally opens his eye, he meets Finn’s gaze once more.

"My pace?" he asks.

"All the way, sweetheart."

Sean’s hand dips below the waistband of Finn’s pants. His dick _jumps_ in response, and Finn sucks in a breath through his teeth. Sean fondles his balls, his shaft. His strokes are every bit as rough and clumsy as before, but not nearly as cautious.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Fuck, baby…" Finn’s forehead falls onto Sean’s shoulder. " _Ev'rythin’_ you do is okay."

Sean strokes him again, but he can’t quite get the angle right. Not from under the waistband.

"Here, help me out…"

They shift together, easing down Finn’s jeans and boxers just enough to free his dick. Sean’s breath hitches. He’s never seen another guy’s dick before. At least, not this close. Or this _hard_. It’s pink, with a red flush at the tip, a bit of precum welling in the slit. Sean likes the weight of it, the heat, the way it throbs in his hand. It makes him feel kind of… powerful.

He rolls the precum with the pad of his thumb. Finn lets out a warmth breath across Sean’s collarbone.

"Fuck," he moans. "Fuck, yes, just like that, sweetie…"

With his fingers curled tight, Sean strokes the full length of Finn’s shaft, up, down, and up again. More precum beads from the tip, dripping onto Sean’s wrist. Suddenly, Sean has to _know_. Has to taste.

He scoots backwards, pushing open Finn’s legs and kneeling between them, his back curved into a perfect arch. Finn’s dick ends up directly in his face; Sean grasps it in one hand, and swipes his tongue across the head.

"Oh _shit_ —" Finn says, breathless in a way that makes Sean hungry for more. He licks the head again, then takes it into mouth.

He’s not sure what he expected. The taste of salt, maybe, but Sean can only really taste skin and sweat. Finn’s dick is smooth against his tongue, twitching and eager. Sean opens his mouth wider and lets the shaft slide along his flat tongue. His eye flicks upward; Finn’s head is tilted back in pleasure.

Sean is so hard, it hurts. He frees his own dick with one hand, stroking himself in time with the motion of his head. Sean moves his mouth up and down, slowly finding a rhythm, and once he settles into a good pace, Sean hollows out his cheeks and _sucks_.

" _Shit!_ "

Finn’s fingers flex as if they long to bury themselves in Sean’s hair, but instead they twist between Finn’s dreadlocks. Sean increases his rhythm. Up the shaft—suck. Flatten his tongue. Slide back down. Up again, sucking harder. Faster. Faster. The hand around his own dick pumps harder.

It’s so— _fucking_ — _hot_. All of it. The dick in his mouth. The moans in Finn’s throat. The air around them and the open sky above. Sean never could have known—never would have guessed—how fucking hard he would be, sucking off some guy in the back of a dirty truck.

Finn’s sharp inhale is only warning Sean gets before a hot, bitter taste floods his mouth. He gags, caught off guard; Finn’s dick falls out of his mouth with a wet _pop_ and come spills over his lips.

He chokes, sputters—he should be embarrassed—he _is_ embarrassed—but his hand keeps moving between his legs. He’s so close—so fucking—!

Sean comes in a rush, hurried and needy. His dick spasms and he spills and he spills, shuddering, gasping. His come pools on the truck bed between his knees. Finn’s come drips from his chin.

There’s the salty taste he expected. Sean isn’t sure that he likes it. But he _does_ like the flush in Finn’s cheeks—and aftershocks rippling through his own thighs.

Finn scoops up his discarded shirt and wipes Sean’s face.

"It’s an acquired taste," he grins.

"Yeah…" Sean takes the shirt when Finn offers it, cleaning his dick and his hands. "No kidding."

Sean crawls to Finn’s side and leans into him. A heavy arm winds around Sean's shoulders. It takes Sean a moment to notice that Finn is staring at him—and another moment to realize that it’s because he’s _smiling_.

"Someone’s proud’a himself," Finn grins. Sean nudges him with an elbow.

"I fucking should be," he says. "I obviously _own_ at blowjobs… Like a cock-sucking prodigy, or something."

Finn laughs. He plants a kiss in Sean’s hair.

It’s not until later—much later, after the sun has set and few more miles lie behind them—that Sean flips through his sketchbook. He’s not ready to draw but… even just looking at the old sketches feels like a victory, a step in the right direction.

Finn is asleep beside him, curled up in Sean’s tent where Daniel used to sleep. Sean passes a flashlight over his drawings, focusing on each one in turn.

He starts with the most recent sketches. The trimmigrant gang; Cassidy, Hannah, Penny. The redwoods. That old, smelly dog. Where is he now? Maybe Finn knows. Sean hopes that dog is with Hannah; he can’t replace Blackflag, but maybe he can… occupy a similar space.

There are sketches of Finn, of course. Watching the sunset. Whittling a stick. A bittersweet smile tugs at Sean’s lips. He wants to add new details to these sketches; things Sean didn’t notice about Finn until he watched him sleep. But he can't do it now. Not yet.

The pictures of Daniel are the hardest to look at. Sean runs his hand over black lines and wonders how much of Daniel’s face has changed. Is he getting taller? His hair, longer? Has he cut it? Has he… gained any scars?

Sean forces himself to turn the page. Keep moving.

Sketches of his grandparents, Stephen and Claire. What would they think of Finn? Finn would like them—Stephen’s trainset would blow Finn’s mind. If Claire would let him in the house.

Sean turns the page. Here, he finds a sketch of a Christmas market, overrun with alien invaders.

 _Whoa!_ a boy says. His blue eyes are ringed with paint, a child's crude imitation of a superhero mask. _You could draw comic books! The Awesome Adventures of… Captain Spirit and Superwolf!_

Sean sits upright, his eye wide, transfixed on the image in his hand.

He knows where Daniel is going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to deeply thank everyone who left comments on the first two chapters of this fanfic! I feel so encouraged, and I'm immensely, indescribably glad that there are so many of you who can't wait to go on this journey with Sean and Finn. As I've said before, it's going to be a fun ride!
> 
> Something that you guys might find interesting is that I have a headcanon about this chapter--I mean, if it's even possible to have a headcanon about your own story. My headcanon is that the big "decision" that Sean had to make in Chapter Two--whether to share Finn's bed or sleep alone--influenced their conversation in the back of the truck. If this fanfic was an actual episode of Life Is Strange, I imagine that choosing to sleep in Finn's bed makes him feel close enough to Sean that he opens up about his experiences with "older guys." If Sean had chosen to sleep alone, Finn still would've had a similar conversation with Sean, but he wouldn't have been willing to make himself vulnerable and talk about his past.
> 
> The next update for this fanfic should be posted by Tuesday. I'm really excited about the stuff coming up--and some of the characters I'll finally get to write!


	4. fourth step

"Alright, how naked I gotta be to get your attention?"

"What?"

Sean’s whole head snaps upward, his cheeks flushing soon after. He hates how quickly the word _naked_ made him look—like a dog jumping for a bone. Finn lets out a good-natured laugh.

"Just teasin’ you, honey. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Here—" He offers Sean one of two paper cups in his hands. "Breakfast."

It’s early. The sun has only just starting to rise over the flat, rocky horizon. Sean is sitting on the edge of the truck bed, next to a row of empty gas pumps. He accepts the cup and takes a careful sip. Grimaces. The kindest thing he can say about gas station coffee is that it warms his hands.

The truck bed bows with Finn’s weight as he settles in next to Sean. As always, he sits on Sean’s good side, keeping himself within Sean’s periphery. Their feet dangle towards the ground.

"Oh, right—I gotcha this, too." Finn searches the inner pocket of his vest, revealing its contents with a flourish. Sean’s mouth curves into a wondering smile. It’s a map of Nevada, crisp and new.

"Thanks," he says, oddly touched by the gesture. He hadn’t thought Finn was paying attention when he asked for it.

They sit for a moment, drinking their coffee in easy silence. Finn’s hand finds Sean’s knee and rests there, comfortable and calm. Sean stares at the rings on his fingers, the bracelets at his wrist. Both are only inches from Sean’s sketchbook, opened to an illustration of Captain Spirit and Superwolf.

"So, where to next, Navigator?" Finn asks. He throws back his head, draining the coffee cup, then discarding it with a careless toss. Sean takes a steadying breath.

"I… don’t know. But I think I figured out what Daniel’s looking for." He tilts the sketchbook towards Finn, tapping the picture of Captain Spirit. Finn squints at it.

"Who’s that?"

"Chris Eriksen. That’s the only person Daniel would want to see more than Karen."

Finn nods, catching on. "Alright… Where’s he live?"

"That’s the fucking thing," Sean sighs. He pulls back the sketchbook, shaking his head at the image. "He used to live in Oregon. But Charles—Chris’ dad—told me he was going to send Chris away, to live with his grandparents. And I have no idea where they are." He snaps the sketchbook closed. "For all I know, Daniel could be on his way to fucking _Florida_."

Finn’s hand passes over his mouth, pulling down. He looks straight ahead, out into the distance.

"Shit…"

"Yeah," Sean frowns. His legs swing back and forth over the truck bed, longing for something to kick. "Fucking _shit_."

There’s a long pause as the weight of Sean’s revelation settles around them. Suddenly, Sean wants to go, needs to _move_ —but his own words have boxed him in, trapping him in this moment.

"Sean… I, uh… I gotta tell you somethin’."

Sean’s blood goes cold. Finn sounds hesitant and nervous—just like when Sean first woke, after he lost his eye. Lost _Daniel_. Sean doesn’t think he could survive losing much else.

"Daniel, he… called Chris a few times, after you left Beaver Creek."

He…

What?

"He told me ‘bout their, uh… ‘secret communications?’ Yeah, I guess while you were doin’ odd jobs ‘round California, Daniel would sneak off and call Chris from payphones."

Sean’s hands are shaking. He sets aside his coffee cup and balls them into fists, trying to keep himself composed.

All that work. All that careful planning. All the sacrifices Sean made and every dollar he scraped together—he did that to keep Daniel alive! To keep Daniel _safe._ And Daniel put it all at risk, _lied_ to him, just to hear Chris’ voice.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Sean asks. He feels but doesn’t see the turn of Finn’s head.

"’Cause he trusted me, Sean."

Sean jumps to the ground, only inches below his feet. Walks wordlessly to the passenger’s seat and digs through their gear with both hands. His movements are jerky, emotionless—as if his body knows what he’s looking for, but his brain does not.

"I didn’t think it was important!" Finn calls from the truck bed. "You said he was goin’ to Arizona!"

There. Daniel’s backpack. Sean brings it to the truck bed and turns it upside down. Toys and pinecones spill everywhere, scattering at Finn’s side. A pang in Sean’s chest—he hasn’t looked at these things since the heist. Like his sketchbook, it simply hurt too much—it _still_ hurts, but there must be a clue here. Something Daniel hid from him.

Sean examines the toy robot. The creepy doll with yellow hair. He opens the canteen—bone dry—and shakes out the superhero cape. Nothing.

An ancient comic book flutters in the breeze. Sean catches a flash of white. Closer inspection reveals a small stack of papers, crammed between the colorful pages of Hawt Dog Man. Sean spreads them out, hopeful, but finds only sketches of superheroes. Captain Spirit. Power Bear. Superwolf, and—

"Holy shit, is that me?!" Finn laughs, snatching up the page. There, lovingly drawn in Daniel’s distinct style, is a figure with wild hair, jutting out of his head like spikes. Three triangles are just visible under his eye, and his left forearm is a sharp blade.

"Lookit me! I gotta knife hand! That’s gonna make things interestin’ in bed…" He brings the page closer to his face, squinting to make out Daniel’s handwriting. "Hang on… _Quick Knife?!_ Is that my superhero name? Fuckin’ A, that’s cool!"

Finn is absolutely beaming. He tears his eyes away from the drawing and waves it at Sean. "Whaddya think, _Silver Runner?_ "

Sean flinches at the nickname, the one he chose in Chris’ living room.

"Daniel… told you about that?"

"Sure did!" Finn crosses his arms into a familiar _X_ —the secret symbol of Daniel and Chris’ superhero team. "Go, Spirit Squad!"

The pang in Sean’s chest becomes an ache. A yawning hole no one could stitch tight. He doesn’t know why. The whole thing is stupid anyway, just a dumb game for dumb kids—

A hand grips his shoulder. "Hey now, I know that look."

"There’s no _look_ ," Sean insists, but he can feel that extra line in his brow that only appears when he’s particularly agitated.

"C’mon, yes there is!" Finn shakes him lightly. "I geddit. You’re bummed ‘cause you liked bein’ Daniel’s hero… An’ you still are! Daniel was just addin’ to the team, y’know?" He nods to the drawings of Superwolf and Captain Spirit.

"It’s not that…" Sean says, though what it _is_ , he can’t exactly pinpoint. He opens Daniel’s backpack and begins to pack away his toys. "I just thought… I was the one he trusted. Turns out, I’m the one he was keeping secrets from."

"Ev’rybody’s got secrets, Sean. Shit, the things I kept from my brothers…" Finn busies his hands, folding up the drawing of Quick Knife and sliding it into his vest pocket. "I mean, did you tell your dad _ev’rythin’_?"

Of course he didn’t. But that’s not… that’s not...

Sean struggles with the plastic robot. Its stupid wings popped open. It won’t—

 _It doesn’t fit in!_ Daniel whines, while Mushroom barks at the door. Toys are scattered all over the floor of that old, abandoned house, and Daniel can’t bear to leave anything behind. _There’s too much stuff…_

 _Don’t worry_ , Sean says. _Your super strong big brother can help_.

"I never wanted to be his dad," Sean says. He has to turn his whole face to pull Finn out of his blind spot. "But I fucking _tried_ , you know?"

He tried, and he still messed everything up. Pushed Daniel away. Pushed him towards Chris and Finn and _Karen_ …

Finn’s hand stretches out, grasping Sean by the back of his head. He presses their brows together so hard, it feels like Finn is trying to burrow into Sean’s mind. Sean is pinned there, unable and unwilling to move. Finn’s grip is an anchor. A solid, much-needed weight.

"Sean, listen’ta me. Life gave you shit, okay? But you gotta drop it fast. Leave it behind, ‘cause hangin’ on to it don’t help anybody."

Sean tries to nod, his head shaking between Finn’s palm and forehead.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay… I’ll try…"

"We’re gonna find him. It’s gonna be alright."

And for the next few days, it is alright. They travel from town to town, following up on leads and chasing wild stories. The clues are solid—one gas station attendant describes a boy with a rocketship on his shirt and a bandana around his neck. Says she caught him stealing candy at the register. That he ran when she told him to stop. Didn’t seem to have anyone with him.

"You call the cops on that little shit?" Finn asks, while Sean hovers by a rack of magazines. Finn’s good at that—pretending he’s _not_ looking for Daniel. Just making conversation. It keeps anyone from getting too suspicious.

The attendant shrugs. "Nah, kids dare each other to shoplift here all the time. He was just being stupid."

"Shit, that happens ev’ry day?"

"’Bout one a week."

A week. They’re a _week_ behind Daniel. While Sean is stumbling around, blind, Daniel is getting further and further away.

Sean is a kite. Drifting, aimless. Suspended by a power that it not his own, constantly knocked about by the wind. From so high up, he can see every danger, every possibility. This cruel, cold vantage point allows him to find Daniel a hundred times, in a hundred different ways. Collapsed in the desert. Dead in a ditch. Torn apart by his own telekinesis.

But at night… Finn tugs his string. Grounds him. Centers him. Finn’s strength—Finn’s laugh—Finn’s lips on his neck and chest and mouth—those are Sean’s tether. His thin, frail line to reality.

Most times, it’s enough just to be held. To feel Finn’s arms around him. To share kisses and entwine their limbs. Other times…

Other times, he needs Finn’s hands on his thighs and mouth between his legs. He needs to feel the slide of Finn’s tongue around his cock and the tight warmth Finn’s throat.

Finn is so good at this. So amazingly, _unfairly_ good at this. He knows it, too—a low sound rumbles in his throat, almost like a laugh, and the shocks it sends through Sean reverberate all the way up to his scalp.

Sean curses, his fingers twisting so hard into the slick fabric of their tent, he just might pull the walls down on top of them. Finn laughs again, or maybe he moans—either way, it sends more vibrations through Sean, tingling from his fingertips to the soles of his feet.

But then Finn shifts, and Sean’s dick slides out of his mouth. Sean _whines_ —Finn is such a fucking tease. He’s going to drag this out, going to pepper kisses along Sean’s inner thigh and—

Wait.

Finn lifts Sean’s hips. Nearly folds Sean in _half_. Heat pools in Sean face and just below his navel. This is new, this is—

Finn’s tongue circles his asshole. Teases it with slow, wet strokes. Sean is suddenly aware of that part of his body in new and spectacular ways; how soft the skin is there, how it twitches with each swipe of Finn’s tongue, curious and eager.

That tongue plunges inside of him.

" _Fuck!_ "

Sean tosses his head back, mouth open, knuckles white. It’s so good—so strange and different but _good_. That soft, wet heat sliding between his ass—what will his fingers feel like? His dick?

Sean wrenches his eye open. He wants to look. Needs to see. Finn is above him, grinning, _crooning._ Nothing else exists in this moment but the skill of his tongue and the color of his eyes; blue, alight and alive.

The heat in Sean’s gut tightens—then explodes through him.

He’s not aware of much after that. Finn, cleaning them up. Finn, curling up beside him. The aftershocks of Sean’s orgasm are warm and pleasant, like the sunset reflected on a lake; orange water rippled by stones. He can just float, safely tethered, not standing still but drifting, _existing_ , carried by a gentle breeze.

He’s in his old room, back in Seattle. No school tomorrow. No work, either. His problems are just dark spots on the ground below, so far away Sean can barely see them.

Finn shifts beside him. The string tugs his kite. But instead of pulling Sean into the tent, it pulls Finn into the bedroom. They’re sprawled on Sean’s mattress, sharing the same pair of earbuds. Sean can smell his old carpet. Feel the walls rattle when a plane passes overhead. With his eye shut, Sean’s room—Sean’s _life_ —is exactly the way he remembers it.

Except—no. It wasn’t always like this. Finn wasn’t always here.

It’s difficult to imagine Finn in his old life. His… high school life. Track meets. Study groups. Pep rallies—Finn doesn’t fit in any of those images. Like a piece from the wrong puzzle.

Sean opens his eye. Turns his head just enough to pull Finn into view. He’s on his back, hands folded over his chest. Peaceful. Calm. Perhaps on the cusp of sleep.

"Do you think we would've hung out in high school?" Sean asks.

Finn smiles with both eyes closed. "I’d hang out with you just ‘bout anywhere, beautiful."

"No, I mean… You think we would have been friends? I was, like… a super lame track-and-field kid. Art nerd. Shitty at math."

Those labels used to mean everything—used to define so much of Sean’s life. Where he could sit. Who he could talk to. They seem stupid now, but… a good kind of stupid, almost like playing pretend with Daniel. Art Nerd, Silver Runner… Both of those fit him like a well-worn shirt, easily donned and easily discarded.

Sean nudges Finn with his foot. "What about you? Where did you fit in?"

Silence. Sean almost thinks Finn has gone to sleep, but his arms are too stiff; his chest, too still. After a long moment, he opens his eyes.

"I didn’t really do school," Finn says, staring at the roof of their tent. "My brothers wanted me to. None’a them got to graduate, and they thought it’d be cool if I did." His mouth stretches in an odd way, caught between a frown and a smile. "But… liftin’ cars was more fun. Paid good, too. You know what it's like bein’ twelve years old and havin’ five hundred dollars in your pocket? You feel like king’a the goddamned world."

His tone is… nostalgic. Wistful. This prickles at Sean in a way he can’t quite describe, creates an itch he can’t quite scratch. He rubs at his neck instead.

"You… kinda sound like... you miss it."

"Maybe I do. I dunno. Some’a the best times we had were behind the wheel’a someone else’s car."

Sean remembers the night they stole Big Joe’s truck. How nervous he felt the whole time. Like he was sitting on a box of dynamite, not knowing when or how it would go off.

"Weren’t you scared?" Sean asks.

"Sure, but like… ev’rythin’s scary to a kid. Not so much when your brothers are lookin’ out for ya. Bein’ with them… even when we were doin’ somethin’ stupid… felt safe, y’know?"

Sean’s in the truck. In a picture that Finn that belongs in, a puzzle Finn helped him assemble. Sean is wedged between Finn and Daniel, barreling away from Big Joe’s trailer.

 _Ready to do this?_ Finn asks, hands drumming on the steering wheel.

 _Ready_ , Sean says, though he’s not. He’s really not.

_Little man?_

_Yes!_ Daniel says. He’s even more excited than Finn. _I’m not scared!_

 _That’s what I like to hear!_ Finn laughs. He's so sure about this heist, so confident that they'll succeed. Of course he is—he has his brothers back. His family. His safety. He's twelve years old again, and nothing can hurt him. Not with Sean by his side.

In the tent, Finn rolls over. Props his head on his elbow.

"If you an' me gone to same school, I’d’ve gotten perfect fuckin’ attendance."

Sean tries to smile. "You would’ve been one of the Seniors I was too afraid to talk to. Hanging out with the punks, smoking under the bleachers."

"Nah man, I’d’ve been the guy suckin’ you off under them bleachers."

Sean snorts at that. Finn leans close, sliding a hand between Sean’s neck and jaw.

"I would’a been your dirty little secret, Sean Diaz."

He punctuates that statement with a kiss. A soft, playful kiss tinged ever so slightly with regret, longing for things they could never have.

In the dark, Sean wonders if that’s true—if he would have kept Finn a secret. Those pictures Finn doesn’t fit in—is it because Sean wouldn’t have let him? Like Claire and Stephen, never making room for Dad… And Dad, never making room for them.

Something twinges in Sean. Not grief for his father’s death—that pain is as familiar and ever-present as Sean’s heartbeat. No, this pain is new, freshly unearthed, like so many holes dug into his chest.

Dad would not have liked Finn.

Finn is too… reckless. Unpredictable. Unfocused. Dad is— _was_ —cool, and understanding, and generous—but Dad was also _serious_ , and Finn never is. Dad would’ve argued. Dad wouldn’t have _approved_ —and Sean would’ve fallen for Finn anyway, despite all warning.

Just like Daniel, letting Karen into his heart, despite everything she’s done.

Sean sits up in the dark. A moment later, he has Daniel’s backpack in his lap, and a flashlight in hand. He pulls back the zipper, quietly. Finn breath remains slow and even.

Sean doesn’t dump out the backpack like before. Instead, he removes each toy individually, examining it close before moving on to the next. These toys—they’re like the people Daniel let into his heart. Karen. Chris. Finn. Daniel chose all of them for a reason. _Carries_ them all for a reason.

He looks over the plastic robot. Checks all its limbs, its buttons, its hidden compartments. The CD player is next—it has no batteries and no music, but it must have meant something to Daniel. Maybe he just liked its strange, crocodile smile.

Sean gives the same careful attention to each toy. He finds new details to admire in each one, but none of them yield any new clues.

The last toy is an old doll covered in ugly markings. Someone—either out of too much love or too little—took a permanent marker to this doll, scribbling a tattoo on its arm. A scar on its cheek. Red glasses around its eyes.

No, not glasses.

A superhero mask.

Chris.

There’s a large scuff on the doll’s neck, as if its head has been severed and replaced many times. Sean pries his fingers into the seam and the head goes rolling into his lap—followed by a scrap of paper.

Sean lifts the paper with trembling fingers. Unfolds it, one careful crease at a time.

There, in childish but unfamiliar handwriting, is a phone number. Above it, one simple phrase:

 _Spirit Line_.

A dry sob strangles Sean’s throat. He falls forward, overwhelmed, clutching that small scrap of paper to his chest.

Finally. _Finally_. A link to Daniel. Real and true and _here_ , in his hands.

For the first time since Sean lost his eye, he feels like Daniel’s big brother.

 

*

 

"Shit, how old is this thing?"

There are three payphones lined against the concrete wall; only one is in working order. All of them are dented, covered in faded stickers, graffiti and gum. Still, Finn leans against the phone’s metal frame, his hand on Sean’s shoulder as he slides three quarters into the slot.

Sean dials the number. His breath stalls when the dial tone becomes static, then stops entirely when the static becomes a steady ring.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Come on, Chris… Please…

 _Please_ …

"H-Hello?"

Everything falls out of Sean. His breath. His bones. It’s a miracle he can even remain upright. His head bows, resting heavily on the payphone.

"Chris?" he exhales. "Chris, is that you?"

"I…" The voice on the other end hesitates. "Who is this?"

"It’s me, Chris. It’s, uh… Silver Runner."

"Sean?! You’re alive?!"

Sean almost laughs. Relief and warmth and the sting of tears all rush through his face. "Yeah, dude. Why- why wouldn’t I be?"

"Daniel said… he wasn’t sure."

 _Daniel_. Just the sound of his name makes Sean ache.

"He said that? Have you—have you talked to him?"

Chris hesitates again. When he speaks, his voice is hushed, like he’s betraying a terrible secret. "Yeah."

"Do you know where he is?"

No response. Sean’s heartbeat quickens. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —

"Chris, listen, this is important… Daniel and I got separated. I need to find him."

Finn hits his shoulder. Sean’s head whirls to look at him, annoyed, angry—until Finn crosses his arms into the shape of an _X_.

"The Spirit Squad has to stick together!" Sean cries. His eye is wide and fixed tightly on Finn’s. "Right?"

Another long pause. Then, finally, with the weight of a comet: "He’s here, Sean."

"W-with you? Put him on the phone, Chris, _please_ -!"

"N-no, he’s at our secret base." Chris’ voice trembles. Every waver in his sentence is a knife in Sean’s heart. "I can’t get there right now… and… I’m not sure… he wants to talk to you."

Sean would have dropped the phone, if it wasn’t so tightly pressed to his ear. His free hand covers his face; the tears burning behind his eye begin to fall.

"He’s not okay, Sean."

"Is he—hurt?" Sean’s throat is so tight, the words barely escape.

"No, it’s…" Chris is silent for another long moment, always so careful with his words. "It’s hard to explain."

Sealed in the darkness behind his palm, all Sean can feel is the grief in his veins, and the hand wrapped tight around his shoulder. "Chris, please… Tell me where you are, so I can help him. Please. Please, I just… want to help…" He swallows thickly. "Superheroes should always help."

A strong inhale from Chris. In Sean’s mind, he can actually see Chris drawing himself into a heroic pose.

"I can meet you at the park after school tomorrow… I’ll take you to the hideout."

He gives Sean the address. Sean repeats it out loud, while Finn scribbles it down and checks their map. The park is an hour away. _Daniel_ is an hour away.

"Chris— _thank you_. You’re a real superhero, man. I mean it."

"No one can stop the Spirit Squad," Chris says heavily. Then, in a significantly more hushed and hurried voice: "Oh no—I should go. Remember: Park, after school!"

"Park after school," Sean echoes. There’s a click—then the dial tone.

Sean cannot bear to hang up, so he lets the phone slip out of his hand. Finn pulls him roughly forward, into a tight embrace, and suddenly everything else slips away, too. A sob bubbles out of Sean; a small, childish sound. He clutches Finn’s vest, sobbing, trembling. It’s a good cry. The kind that washes away what was, making room for what will be.

He’s so close. So close to the end. Just a few more steps.

Just a few more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't be the only one who thinks that Daniel's "Demon Blonde" doll looks like Chris, right?
> 
> Anyway, I want to thank all of you once again for all your kind words and support! I'm just so incredibly invested in this journey, and touched that all of you are excited to walk alongside me. I want to be better about responding to your comments, so keep them coming!


	5. fifth step

Karen used to walk Sean to school, when he was little. He liked to run ahead of her—but not too far ahead.

There was a rule. Sean could run to the stoplight, but not cross the street. He had wait for Karen, then hold her hand so they could cross together. All those cars lined up, waiting for them to pass, their engines hot and rumbling—Sean could have reached out and touched them, if he’d wanted. Karen squeezed his hand.

On the other side of the street, he took off again. With every lunge, Sean could feel his backpack slap against him; his lunchbox bounced inside. Sometimes, Sean would look back over his shoulder and smile, as if to say, _Look how fast I am, Mom!_

There was a chain link fence around the schoolyard. It was taller than Sean, but it only reached Karen’s waist. Sean reached it long before she did. He threw open the gate and hurried inside, eager to play with his friends. Soon, Sean was engrossed in a game of tag. Laughter. Flailing arms. Colorful sneakers on faded blacktop.

Suddenly, Sean stopped. What happened to Mom? He forgot to look to over his shoulder. He didn’t smile at her. He didn’t say goodbye!

Sean whirled around, searching. There—just beyond the chain link fence: Karen, talking in a circle of adults. The playground between her and Sean seemed like a vast ocean, churning with strange and noisy creatures.

Nevertheless, Sean was relieved. He waved both hands in the air, calling to his mother. He had to say goodbye.

His shouts drew the attention of other kids. A boy ran to his side. "Who’s that, Sean?"

"My mom!" Sean said. He waved his hands again, but Karen didn’t see. The boy wrinkled his nose.

"No, she’s not."

"Yes, she is, stupid!" Like he didn’t know his own mom.

" _You’re_ stupid!" the boy shouted back. "That’s not your mom! She doesn’t look like you!"

Sean didn’t have time for an argument. He kept his eyes firmly on Karen, pinning her there, even as he jumped up and down. "Mom! Mom!"

But Karen still wouldn’t look.

"See? She doesn’t even know who you _are_!"

"Shut up!"

More and more kids gathered alongside them, drawn in by the commotion. There was a gasp from a girl with plastic barrettes.

"Oooh, Sean said, ‘ _Shut up!_ ’ I’m telling!"

"Why is he crying?"

"I’m not crying!" Sean said. He _wasn’t_. He just needed Karen to look. Why didn’t she hear him?

The first boy turned to the others. "Sean doesn’t know who his mom is."

"Yes, I do!" Sean said, tearing his gaze away from Karen. "She’s right there!"

"Nuh-uh!" another kid chimed in. Then another. Then two more.

"She doesn’t _look_ like your mom."

"That’s not your mom, Sean."

There was stinging heat in Sean’s face, but he wasn’t crying. "Yes, she is!"

"No, she’s _not_!"

It became a chant. _No, she’s not! No, she’s not!_ they said in unison, over and over. Kids who didn’t even know what was going on began to join in. Panic seized every inch of Sean, terrified that their words could somehow make it true.

The bell rang. Kids hurried to their places, grabbing their backpacks and forming neat little lines. Outside the chain link fence, the parents began to disperse. Karen turned to leave.

No!

Sean wailed, and ran for fence. Crashed into it with his full weight. His fingers curled through the metal links. Screams tore at his throat, and a hummingbird heart thrummed inside his ribcage. For one horrible moment, Sean didn’t think Karen would come back.

But she did.

When they reunited at last, Karen dropped down for a hug. Sean clung to her like ivy, his arms around her neck and legs around her waist. She lifted him easily. Held him. Swayed him.

She was still his mother. No one could take her away.

Sean was late to class that morning. Karen took him to the park to calm down. Pushed him on the swings. Spun him on the carousel. Held him as they tumbled down the slide, her arms around his middle and laughter in his ear.

All the shit she never did with Daniel.

More than ten years later, Sean finds himself in a very different park, very far away. He strolls the perimeter, hands in his pockets, hood drawn up over his head. There’s only a handful of children here, laughing, running; anything to stretch out these last few hours before the sun goes down.

Chris said that he couldn’t meet them until after school tomorrow, but Sean wanted to see this place anyway. A part of him expected Daniel to just… _be_ here, sleeping under the jungle gym. He assumed the "secret base" would be easy to find—or that some innate, brotherly instinct would tell Sean where to look.

But there’s nothing. No clues, no obvious sign that a telekinetic nine-year-old has made this place his home. It’s just an ordinary park, filled with ordinary people, living entirely ordinary lives.

What a fucking concept.

Sean wanders back to the truck. Finn is stretched out across the entire seat, his legs hanging out the passenger’s side. He holds a book in the air, hovered above his face. He doesn’t look up as Sean approaches.

"Well?"

" _Nada_ ," Sean says, leaning on the open door. Finn’s head is just inches from his hip. The sound Finn makes tells Sean that he wasn’t expecting any other answer.

"Nothin’ we can do but wait," he says.

"Yeah."

Sean jostles in place. His whole body is… sore, but not with heavy feet and tired limbs. No, he feels like a tightly coiled spring, a rubber band stretched too far. He hates this… this _tension_ , this useless, nervous energy. He doesn’t want to stand still. He wants to run.

He wants to run the way he used to, playing tag with his friends, or doing laps with his team. He wants to run like his mother is behind him and the stoplight, just ahead. A straight shot, a clear finish line. No more of this… uncertainty. This unending fog.

Daniel is close. _So_ close. The finish line, just out of sight. Soon, he’ll be able to see it.

"Twenty more hours," he says, more to himself than anyone else. Finn answers anyway.

"Give or take."

"Huh?"

Finn turns the page of his book. "’After school’ don’t ne’ssarily mean _right_ after school. Could mean ‘after dinner.’ Could mean ‘I’m gonna sneak out after gran’ma and gran’pa tuck me inna bed.’"

Sean stares, suddenly frozen in place. Finn looks up.

"Oh shit, sweetie! I’m sorry." He drops the book to his chest, reaching over his head to grab Sean’s wrist. "Wasn’t tryin’a stress you out."

"It’s fine," Sean says. "You’re right. I wasn’t… thinking." He closes his eye. Shakes his head. "I just… want this to be over, you know?"

"Yeah, I hear ya."

Sean doesn’t reply. For a long moment, he stays within the darkness behind his eyelid. Maybe when he opens it, time will have magically passed by. Finn’s fingers tighten around his wrist.

"Damn, sweetie. You look all kinds’a strung out. I never seen a man more in need’uv’a bong an’ a blowjob."

Sean snorts. "Yeah, well, guess I’m talking to right guy, then." He opens his eye, and a pleasant warmth blossoms in Sean’s chest. Finn is so cute, looking at him up-side down, his dreads splayed out on the driver’s seat. He looks younger, somehow. Like when he’s asleep.

"Hey… Do you think we have enough cash for a room?"

Finn shrugs. His shoulders slide against the seat, and his gaze flicks in the direction of his backpack. "I can prob’ly swing it. Why?"

"I just… wanna stay close," Sean says. His tone is hesitant, but it’s true. To set up their tent, they’d have to leave town, and search for a spot where the cops won’t hassle them. A hotel room is easier. Safer. It’ll be like… having a base. A secret hideout of their own.

The motel is like the rest of Nevada—dusty and brown. It’s nearly identical to the roadside motel Sean and Finn first stayed in, save one key difference: The single bed, waiting for them in the center of the room.

A thrill runs through Sean, though he knows it shouldn’t. He’s shared a tent—shared a _bed_ —with Finn for nearly two weeks. He shouldn’t be this surprised nor this excited, and yet… There’s something about… actually seeing it. One bed. One blanket. One large, wide mattress.

It’s almost like the pages of a sketchbook, waiting for Sean to lay himself bare.

Finn dumps his gear, but not his backpack. He doesn’t kick off his shoes, either. Instead he searches his pockets. Old receipts and an empty cigarette box tumbles to the floor. No one picks them up.

"Saw a drug store on the corner," Finn says. "Gonna do some shoppin’. Smokes and snacks, y’know? Need anythin’?"

He finds what he’s looking for—a ballpoint pen. He holds it over his open palm, ready to write down their shopping list. A smile tugs at Sean’s lips.

Lyla would have liked him.

"Smokes, snacks, booze, condoms…" Sean lets out a dry laugh. "What more does anybody need?"

"I hear _that!_ " Finn says. He steps backwards, giving Sean a two-fingered salute. "Alright, sweetie, I’ll make this quick. Don’t get in’ta too much trouble without me."

A flash of lightning in Sean’s mind. There _is_ something he needs—something he’s afraid to ask for. Something he’s afraid to buy.

"Finn?"

Finn stops, one foot out the door. Suddenly, that’s exactly how Sean feels—suspended, caught between what he needs to say and _Never mind_. He wants this moment to be over, but he doesn’t know if he should just run through it, or run away from it.

He swallows hard. "If they have an… eyepatch…"

"I gotcha covered, sweetheart," Finn winks.

Another step, and he’s gone. The door closes heavily behind him. Sean is left standing in the hotel room, alone.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t been alone—truly alone—since… Since when? Years ago, maybe. In a different life. In the realm of sleep.

Claire’s house. That’s right. The last time Sean was alone, he was in Beaver Creek, right after Daniel snuck off to play with Chris. His grandparents were at church, and the whole house was quiet and still. There was no one to stop Sean from using the laptop, or from using the…

Sean can’t help but turn his head. He spots the hotel phone on the end table, tucked between a tacky lamp and a clock. It’s an old machine—maybe even older than the payphone he used before—with a twisted chord and well-worn buttons. It looks so… benign. Harmless.

It would be so easy to call Lyla again. To hear her voice. To feel… connected. Not just tethered by frail strings, but truly rooted in something. The soil that made him. The place he began.

Sean crosses the room with three long, confident strides. He unplugs the phone and shoves it inside a drawer.

No way. No _fucking_ way. Daniel is too close to fuck it up now.

Nineteen more hours.

Sean pushes into bathroom with his gaze pointed down. Peels off his clothes and leaves them in a dirty heap, then throws away the gauze and tape covering his eye. He tries to throw away Lyla, too—that’s what Finn would do. Finn doesn’t look backward. Finn doesn’t drag things around.

But in the seclusion and safety of the shower, Sean plays out the conversation. He picks up the phone. Dials Lyla’s number—he still remembers it, even after all this time.

He tells her about everything. _Everything_. Daniel’s powers. Merrill’s safe. Cassidy’s music. The ache in his heart and the glass in his eye.

Finn. Kissing him. Touching him. Making him moan.

 _So, do you think you’re… bi?_ Lyla asks. She’s not judging, just curious—in that supportive, best friend kind of way.

 _I dunno_ , Sean replies in his head. _I’m not sure if I’m into guys or if I’m just into… him_.

 _You’re, like… Finnsexual?_ Her tone is light and teasing. Sean smiles.

 _Maybe_. _He’s just… so strong, Lyla. He makes me feel like… everything… will be okay_.

Sean turns off the shower. He can hear the television in the bedroom—Finn must be back. Sean takes a moment to towel-dry his hair, listening to the upbeat music of some stupid commercial. For a brief moment, Finn isn’t the one waiting out there for him—it’s Daniel, dancing on the bed.

Sean ties the towel around his waist. He’s so distracted, so entranced by the music and the sweet ache of his own memories, that Sean forgets not to look at the mirror.

A blurry figure stares back at him, clouded by steam. Sean steps closer, and so does the figure. He could touch it, if he wanted—like a car, rumbling at the crosswalk.

Finn laughs at something on the television. That sound is a lifeline. A raft on stormy seas. An arm around his shoulder.

Sean swipes his hand across the mirror.

Through the fog, a sudden brushstroke of clarity. Within it, Sean can see himself for the first time since losing Daniel. He takes it all in. His thin face. His long, dark hair.

His left eye, stitched shut.

It’s not… so bad. At least, not as bad as he’d imagined. Sean had pictured a hole, grotesque and gaping. But this… this…

There’s an old drawing in Sean’s sketchbook, of himself standing in a fiery room. As the walls burn down around him, the cartoon Sean smiles and says, "This is fine."

That’s exactly how Sean feels now.

Sean turns away from the mirror. At least he knows now, what he looks like. What Finn sees. What… Daniel will see.

Sean wraps the towel around his waist and pads into the bedroom, bare feet on rough carpet. Finn is sprawled out across the mattress with a bag of chips atop his stomach. He glances at Sean as he approaches—then double-takes, and outright ogles him. That look sends jolts right down to Sean’s dick. He moves to the foot of the bed, blocking Finn’s view of the television.

"You’re getting crumbs in the bed," he says, as if he and Finn aren’t seconds away from undressing each other.

Finn drops the bag of chips on the floor. Does the same with television remote; behind Sean, the screen flickers off with a soft _click_. Finn never once takes his eyes off of Sean.

"Shit, baby…" he whispers. "Do you… have _any_ idea… how beautiful you are?"

Sean half-smiles. Beautiful. _Sure_. With stitches in his face and ribs showing through his side. With skinny arms and gangly legs and untamed hair.

"You don’t have to flatter me; we both know I’m putting out tonight."

"Nah, Sean, I mean it." Finn sits upright, crossing his legs and planting both elbows on his knees. "When I see you, I feel… like… No, I _know_ I made the right call."

He says this importantly, his words heavy with meaning. Sean doesn’t quite understand.

"What do you mean?"

Finn holds Sean’s gaze for a moment longer, then looks down at his hands. He fiddles with the bracelets on his wrist, spins the ring around his finger.

"I had one’a them moments, Sean. When you gotta make a choice, an’ you can actually… _see_ the fork in the road. An’ you just stand there ‘cause… no matter which way you choose… there ain’t no goin’ back."

 _Yeah_ , Sean thinks. _I know the fucking feeling_.

Finn sniffs. Rubs at his nose. "When I brought‘cha back to camp, your face all messed up… Hannah wanted’a… drop you at the hospital and bail. Said we had’ta look out for our family—and you weren’t part of it. But I… I couldn’t, Sean. I couldn’t leave you. An’ I couldn’t convince ‘em to stay."

Realization hits Sean like a wave. He hadn’t considered… hadn’t even _thought_ about….

Sean never felt one of the gutter punks. Not really. In his mind—and theirs, he assumed—he was still the City Boy, playing at runaway. When Sean woke up with no brother and one eye, he’d been disappointed by their abandonment, but not surprised.

Finn, though. Finn always saw them— _all_ of them—staying together. One big, fucked-up family. The loss of Hannah, Cassidy, Penny—that’s a wound far deeper than Sean had realized, one that will linger much longer than Finn cares to admit.

He tried to cover it up. Tried to shake it off with bright smiles and books and blunts. But Sean can see it now—the split in Finn’s heart. The fork in the road. Finn didn’t want to choose, didn’t want to leave anyone behind—but when Hannah went one way and Sean went the other, Finn made his choice.

 _To the end and shit_.

Finn inhales deeply. When he finally looks up, he has a smile.

"So, I let ‘em go," he says. "An’ I got you. Fuckin’ worth it."

Suddenly, the distance between them is intolerable. Sean reaches out with one hand. He needs Finn. Needs… this.

Finn reaches back, encircling his wrist. Tugs him gently. Sean allows himself to fall forward—Finn leans with the motion, laying on his back as Sean drapes over him. The towel falls away, crumpling to the floor.

Sean is still warm from the shower, his hair damp and his skin, too soft. Pressed against Finn, he feels new and delicate; Finn’s shirt is rough against Sean’s chest, and the hands on his back are rougher still. Every inch of Sean is exposed, leaving him intensely aware of Finn’s rings, rolling along his hips—and Finn’s shoes, knocking between his ankles. Finn’s zipper, rubbing against his dick.

Their lips meet. The kiss is a slow, tender thing—but it builds quickly, gaining speed with every small touch and subtle movement. Sean takes a breath and Finn actually _chases_ him, his head lifting off the mattress to unite their lips once more.

Sean laughs inside his throat. He tugs impatiently at Finn’s shirt. Finn relents, breaking to kiss just long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. Their mouths come crashing back together, breath mingling, fingers roaming. Sean grinds his hips down and Finn gasps in response. Their dicks rub together, separated by the stiff material of Finn’s pants.

"This," Sean says, tugging at the waistband. "Ditch it."

"Yes— _fuck_ yes—"

They shift, giving Finn enough space to discard his pants and shoes. Sean rolls onto his back and admires the stretch of his arms, the curve of his ass. It’s not long before Finn is beside him once more, pressing kisses to his throat.

"How do you want it, baby?" Finn whispers.

Sean flushes. He knows exactly what he wants, but saying it out loud is so… so…

 _Awkward_.

"Remember… what you did yesterday?" he says, staring at the ceiling.

"Did lotsa things, gorgeous. Gonna need’ta be more specific."

"With your, um… tongue?"

Finn chuckles against his neck. "Yeah, I def’nitely remember eatin’ your ass, sweetheart."

Sean’s face is on _fire_. How can he say those things so… casually?!

"I want you to, um… do that… with your fingers."

Fuck, don’t make him say it.

To Sean’s immense relief, Finn hums with understanding. With a quick kiss to Sean’s cheek, he stretches over the bedside, groping for his bag. He returns with a small plastic tube—and a condom.

Sean’s heart skips, staring at the condom. As Finn lays it on the bedside table, Sean catches a glimpse of the clock.

Eighteen hours, thirty minutes.

Suddenly, there’s not enough time. The minutes that stretched out before are now speeding by, as if tied to the quickening of his heartbeat. This moment is slipping away, and with it, every moment he’s spent in Finn’s arms.

Things won’t be the same after tomorrow. Sean is glad for it—desperate, even, to cross the finish line—but he’s suddenly terrified, because he doesn’t know what lies on the other side, or how he’ll face it, without Finn’s hands to steady him each night.

He’s on a train barreling down tracks, rushing towards a dark tunnel. He can’t jump off, can’t make it _stop_ —

"Hey."

Finn cups his cheek. Turns his head. Meets his eye. The triangles on Finn’s cheek, the dark, wide pupils of his eyes—that’s all Sean can see.

"Stay with me," Finn whispers.

Sean nods within his grip. Yes. Yes, he’s here. Just… here. With a soft blanket beneath his back and Finn’s steady hands easing his legs open, bending his knees—then curling around his dick.

And just like that, Sean can’t imagine being anywhere else. He’s so grounded, so profoundly cleaved to his own flesh that he can feel everything all at once. The warmth in his veins, the tingling in his fingertips, the tension welling between his thighs. There’s no room in him for thought, no space in his mind that pleasure does not occupy.

Finn strokes him slowly, with tight fingers and a firm thumb. He swipes the precum beading in Sean’s slit, and Sean shudders, a moan escaping his throat.

And then—Finn’s other hand slips under his balls. A wet finger circles his ass, teasing, spreading lube, pressing in ever slightly, but never _entering_. Sean can feel himself tense down there—Finn stops, but his finger doesn’t pull away.

"Gotta relax, sweetheart."

Sean nods with his eye closed. He can’t… look at Finn. Not with a finger… almost… inside of him…

"Your pace, remember? You say ‘stop,’ and it stops. Yeah?"

Sean nods again and keeps nodding. Yes. Please. Just…

The finger pushes inside, all the way up to Finn’s knuckle. Sean tosses his head back, his mouth open, his spine tingling. It’s—different than Finn’s tongue. Harder to take, but not… in a bad way. There’s pressure and… and… heat… and— _fuck_ —Finn starts moving. He thrusts his finger in time with the strokes of Sean’s dick, never completely drawing out of him.

Finn adds a second finger, and suddenly the pressure becomes a stretch. A good kind of stretch, like the way his legs feel after a race, with a pounding heart and a sweet burn in his chest.

The hand on Sean’s dick goes still—Sean almost whines from the loss of friction. But the two fingers inside of him pump a little harder, push a little deeper. Then they _curve_ and—

" _FUCK!_ "

Sean’s eye goes wide. His head tilts back as far as it will go, his throat exposed and hands clutching at the blanket.

"There it is…" Finn chuckles, somewhere far away.

He opens Sean leisurely. Gently. With patient, unhurried motions. Sean shudders underneath him, lungs gasping, limbs trembling… He didn’t know… He couldn’t have guessed… that _anything_ could be like this, so slow and… _exquisite_ …

An orgasm builds in him traitorously quick. Another wave of pleasure shivers through him, blossoming from Finn’s fingertips. All it would take to send over the edge is a few short strokes from the hand around his dick—and Sean wants—

Sean wants—

Sean doesn’t know what he wants. Each wave of pleasure is a blissful torment, a terrible, divine agony. He wants this feeling to last forever, but he also wants to reach its peak. 

He wants—

"Finn."

The name is barely a whisper on Sean’s lips, but the fingers immediately draw out of him. Sean hisses with frustration. He didn’t want it to _stop_ —he’ll die if it stops—

"Please," Sean says, his embarrassment gone, replaced with a driving, demanding _need_. "I want you… to fuck me…"

And now— _now_ Finn pulls away. Sean clenches his teeth to hold back another cry.

He can hear Finn open the condom and roll it over his dick. The wet sounds of lube—then the weight of Finn’s body, bowing over him. He plants his elbows on either side of Sean’s chest.

Sean opens his eye. Finn stares down at him, his hair a strange, soft cage around his face. He kisses Sean. His lips are as slow and unhurried as his hands.

Sean lets himself go slack. Allows Finn to take his time, to savor Sean’s taste—and then ease his knees upward, exposing his ass.

Finn’s dick pushes into him. Sean makes a strange sound—maybe an inhale. Maybe a gasp.

It’s… bigger than Finn’s fingers. A lot bigger. The pressure, the good, burning stretch—all of that is the same, but now there’s a… a fullness… and Sean can’t… Sean doesn’t know… what to…

"You okay, sweetie?"

"Mm…" Sean tries to nod. "Mm-hmm."

He is. He’s okay. He’s just needs to… adjust….

And then Finn _moves_ , and all Sean can do is cling to him.

Yes— _fuck_ — _yes_ —!

Finn rolls his hips. Sean arches his back to meet each gradual thrust. His legs wind around Finn’s middle, and the angle allows Finn to hit something inside of Sean that shoots sparks up his spine and into his scalp. He locks his ankles together, angles his hips higher, and the next thrust makes Sean wail with need.

"That’s it, baby— _shit_ —you’re so—"

Finn begins to thrust faster, his composure waning, his rhythm completely lost. He thrusts into Sean again and again, harder and deeper each time. It’s so good, so impossibly, unbelievably _good_ that Sean’s fingernails dig into Finn’s back, clutching tight—

_Stay with me._

_Please, Finn_.

 _Please, just_ —!

Sean comes with a strangled cry. His dick throbs between them, spilling come all the way up Sean’s chest. Sean is shattered by the intensity of it—broken into so many pieces, he cannot move. Cannot think. Cannot see anything except Finn’s eyes, feel anything except Finn’s touch.

Finn shudders with his own release, his head falling heavily forward, brow resting atop Sean’s. He lays there for a moment, chest heaving, dick pulsing; Sean can feel the subtle spasms inside his ass. It’s… a strange sensation, and suddenly Sean feels a little too stretched, a little too full—but then Finn draws out of him, and the emptiness feels just as wrong.

Finn moves to clean them up. Sean tries to say his name, but he can’t find the piece of himself that controls his voice.

Soon enough, he’s in Finn’s arms. And for a moment, for a brief, wonderful moment, Sean is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

 

*

 

When the time finally comes to meet Chris, Sean tries to make himself look nice.

Clean shirt. Combed hair. The drugstore eyepatch; white, with an elastic band that winds around his head. He tries to brush his bangs over it, but his hair isn’t quite long enough. Not yet.

"Lovin’ the pirate look!" Finn says. "It suits you, sweetie. I mean it."

Hope flutters in Sean’s chest, despite himself. He knows it’s stupid, but he can’t help but think… maybe if he looks… kind of cool… Daniel won’t want to run away.

Yeah. Pretty fucking stupid. But it’s all Sean has to work with.

They wait in the parking lot, just beyond the playground perimeter. Together, they sit on the back of the truck. Finn has a book in his lap and a hand on Sean’s knee; Sean hopes they look casual. Just two teenagers hanging out. Nothing suspicious. No reason to call the cops.

Then, down the street—a familiar figure, riding a bike.

 _Shit_.

Chris looks… _exactly_ the way Sean remembers him. Yellow hair. T-shirt covered in superheroes. A mask painted on his face and cape streaming in the wind.

Sean grabs Finn’s forearm, squeezing tight. He can’t move. Can’t _breathe_. It’s happening. He’s _here_.

Finn looks sharply upward. "Oh shit-! Is that him?"

Chris rolls into the playground and jumps off his bike. It clatters against the sidewalk. Did he see Sean? What is he—?

Chris runs to the drinking fountain, takes a quick sip, then hurries back to his bike. In less than a minute, he’s peddling down the street, back the way he came.

The _fuck_?!

Sean is on his feet. Finn, too. What just—?! Where is he _going_?!

"We suppose’ta follow him?!" Finn hisses.

"I dunno, dude! Did he even see us?"

"Shit!"

They follow after Chris. They don’t run, but they don’t exactly walk, either.

"Shit, _shit_ …" Finn mutters. "This is how I go back to jail. Stalkin’ a _nine-year-old_."

Chris rounds a corner. By the time Sean and Finn get there, Chris is gone. Nowhere in sight.

"No!" Sean cries. His footsteps quicken. _Fuck, no_. He’s jogging now, running, gaining speed. _Fuck_. _Fucking_ shit! _No!_ He was so close— He was _right there_ —!

"Silver Runner! _Sean_!"

Sean skids to a halt. Whirls around. His eye strains.

"Over here!" Chris calls again, waving from behind a tree. Sean almost falls to the ground.

"Chris—what the _shit_ , man?"

Chris bristles at that, but it’s not enough to break his composure. He leans around the tree trunk, peering down the street.

"Were you followed?" he whispers.

What?

"Mantroid has spies everywhere," Chris says, eyes narrowed at the mention of his nemesis.

"N-Nah, dude." Sean shakes his head. Right. Chris is _nine_. Everything is a fucking game. "We’re all clear, Captain Spirit."

At that exact moment, Finn finally catches up with them. He doubles over, winded.

"Sean!" he says, grabbing Sean’s shoulder for balance. "What the _actual fuck_? I didn’t know you was _that_ fast!"

"Who’s this?" Chris asks, pulling back behind his tree. Sean raises a hand, as if to calm a frightened animal.

"Chris—it’s okay. This is Finn, he’s cool."

"What?" Finn notices Chris at last. His entire face lights up. "Oh shit! It’s Cap’n Spirit!" He crosses his arms into the team signal. "Quick Knife, reportin’ in!"

Chris looks skeptical, but intrigued. "You’re part of the Spirit Squad?"

"Sure am! My powers are spreadin’ love and cuttin’ up bad guys."

To illustrate, Finn actually draws the knife at his hip, making three slashes in the air before stowing it just as quickly. Anxiety shoots through Sean—what is Finn thinking?! What if someone _sees_?!—but Chris stares at Finn with his mouth open. He’s never seen a cooler person in his entire life.

"Wow…" he whispers, before clearing his throat and planting both hands on his hips. "We’re glad to have you on the team, Quick Knife."

"Excited to be here, Cap’n," Finn grins.

Sean takes a step towards the tree. This isn’t why they came.

"Chris, you said you’d take us to the hideout. To, uh… Superwolf."

Chris’ hands drop to his sides. "Right. He’s… that way." Chris points behind himself, into an alley. "The hideout isn’t far, but it’s… secure. We’ll be safe there." He looks back to Sean. Bites his lip. "Is it… true?"

"Is… what true?"

"That Superwolf… took your eye."

Sean gut tightens, like he’s taken a punch. " _No_ , Chris. Is that what he told you?"

"…yeah."

"No. It wasn’t… It wasn’t Daniel’s fault."

He takes another step. They need to go. They need to find Daniel, now. Sean has to tell him—has to make him _understand_ —that none of this is his fault.

Chris nods. He hides his bike in a clump of bushes. Secures the backpack tucked under his cape. Soon, they’re walking through alleyways and ducking around trashbins. Sean wonders if their hideout is actually a dumpster.

Chris leads them to a chain link fence, protecting a circle of trees. The rusty sign probably once said _No Trespassing_ , but the hole in the fence says _Come On In_.

They push their way through the trees, over fallen branches and discarded beer cans. There’s a break in the treeline just ahead—and beyond it, some sort of building. An old baseball field, Sean thinks. Yeah—he can see the wooden bleachers, splintered long ago.

"Hang on," Chris says, raising a hand. Sean and Finn stop just behind him. "I’ll let him know we’re friendly."

Chris cups both hands around his mouth, letting out a long howl.

Daniel’s voice howls back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're so close! I'm trembling!!!
> 
> Obviously, this next chapter is going to be a big one, so there might only be one update next week. I'm so, so eager for you guys to see what's next. What are you most excited for? What have you enjoyed most about their journey so far? I'm LOVING all of your amazing feedback! You guys are the best!


	6. sixth step

"That’s the Wolf Signal," Chris says. "Let’s go!"

Clutching the straps of his backpack, he jogs into the baseball field. Behind home plate, wedged between two stacks of bleachers, is an old commentator’s box. Something moves inside its wide window; a figure, small and indistinct. Sean watches it from the treeline, frozen in place.

The figure draws up to the window. Chris waves, and the figure pulls back, disappearing entirely. Seconds later, a door below the commentator’s box throws itself wide.

And then—

                and then—

                                and then—

— _Daniel_.

He emerges all at once, like turning on a light. Where there was nothing, suddenly _everything_. Sean has no body, no thoughts, no emotions. He is an eye, singular and focused. A spotlight fixed on Daniel’s shining face.

Chris and Daniel collide at the pitcher’s mound, laughing, high-fiving. Chris says… something. So does Daniel. The boys are talking over each other, excited, bouncing in place, but Sean can’t hear any of it. The whole world is muted, muffled, the volume turned down low, the dial twisted just shy of zero.

Is Sean… moving? He must be. He can’t feel the ground beneath his feet, but the tunnel between him and Daniel is growing shorter, somehow, magically.

Daniel’s brow creases with confusion. His lips form the word, _What?_

Chris turns. Points directly at Sean. Daniel’s gaze follows his finger.

Sean stops.

The whole world stops.

Daniel’s face twists with shock. Bewilderment. Anguish. _Regret_. But not anger—oh god, _not_ anger. Not _fear_. Not _rage_. Not any of the things Sean dreaded, the things Sean _expected_ —

"Sean!"

Daniel’s shout rips through him like a bullet. His entire body flinches, staggers, and suddenly Daniel is sprinting towards him— _towards_ him—not _away_ from him—

"Sean! _Sean!_ "

Sean should be moving too, but he can’t. He doesn’t know how. He’s never been on this side of a race before. He’s never been the goal. The finish line. The trophy.

Daniel’s embrace knocks Sean on his ass. They tumble to the ground in a mess of limbs, Daniel’s arms around Sean’s waist; Sean’s arms around Daniel’s everything. He tucks Daniel’s head beneath his chin, folds himself so completely around the boy that suddenly Sean himself is only eight years old, cradling his baby brother for the first time.

_You gotta look out for him, mijo. Promise?_

"Sean, I’m so sorry-"

"It’s okay, _enano_ , it’s okay-"

"I didn’t mean to-"

" _Shh_ , it’s okay. We’re okay."

There were so many things Sean had wanted to say to Daniel, things he’d practiced in his head every day since their separation. But now he can’t remember any of it, because Daniel is _here_. Daniel is with him. Daniel is in his arms and what else could possibly matter? The whole world could crumble away but the two of them would remain unshaken, unmoved, fossilized within each other’s bones.

 _I promise!_ says eight-year-old Sean, brushing his cheek against Daniel’s hair, fascinated by how soft it is, how smooth and baby-fine. _I’ll be… Super Bro!_

Daniel leans back enough to look Sean in the face. He’s filthy. The only inch of him not coated in dirt is the wet trail left by his tears.

"Your eye…"

"It’s fine, _enano_. We’re together, okay? I’m here."

Daniel’s mouth moves, but Sean lets out another _Shhh_. He doesn’t want to hear anything. Not yet. He just wants to savor this moment. He cards his fingers through Daniel’s hair—not as fine as it was in infancy, but just as soft—and pulls him close, pressing their foreheads together.

" _There’s_ my little man!"

" _FINN!_ "

Finn’s embrace is the exact opposite of Sean’s—instead of knocking to him to the ground, Daniel climbs Finn like a tree, all grasping hands and winding legs.

"Whoa, easy!" Finn laughs, staggering under the sudden weight. "My power ain’t super strength!"

Where there should be jealousy, Sean feels only joy. He’s elated. Floating. The laughter that comes out of him is so light and so effortless that Sean hardly recognizes the sound.

"I can’t believe it! You’re okay!"

"’Course I am!" Finn says, lowering Daniel to the ground. "I got Superwolf and Silver Runner lookin’ out for me."

"Oh! That’s right! You _have_ to see the hideout!" Daniel reaches for Sean and Finn at the same time, tugging at their hands. "My friend Chris helped me—Chris?"

Sean looks across the baseball field. There, all alone at the pitcher’s mound, is Chris, silent and shaking. His shoulders are slumped, his arms wrapped around himself in makeshift hug. Tears streak the superhero mask around his eyes.

Daniel runs to his friend. Sean and Finn aren’t far behind. Chris jolts at their sudden attention and turns away, wiping at his face.

"Chris! What’s wrong?"

"You doin’ alright, Cap’n?" Finn drops down at Chris’ side. Sean kneels at Daniel’s.

"Yeah…" Chris sniffs. His mask is ruined. His hands, smeared with paint. "I’m okay. I just… really miss my dad."

He blinks hard, trying to stem the flow of tears. Daniel’s arms wind around Chris’ middle; Finn steadies his shoulders. Sean…

Sean is in his grandparents’ back yard, watching Chris sprint towards his treehouse. He has tears on his face and no shoes on his feet; no coat, either, despite the thick layer of snow covering the ground. Whatever he’s running from must be worse than wet socks and freezing hands.

Sean is watching Charles chase after him. Noticing how Chris flinches at his touch, leans away from his embrace.

 _Chris talked to me_ , Sean says. He’s alone with Charles. Chris and Daniel are laughing outside, playing in the snow. _He said that you sometimes lose it… when you’re drunk. Maybe… you should get some help_.

Charles is quiet. Mournful. His voice trembles. _Maybe I could s-send him away for a while_.

 _Might do him good_ , Sean replies.

He knew it would be difficult. He knew that Chris… might not understand. But he didn’t know that Chris would miss Charles so desperately, love him so defiantly, despite the bruises, despite the arguments, despite the cruel and unkind words.

Sean doesn’t understand it. When Karen left, he felt only anger. Hatred. Resentment. They burned in him like a fire—they burn in him even now. His hatred for Karen is a furnace in his chest, filled with embers that never fully extinguish.

Chris sniffles wetly. Drags the back of his wrist across his nose.

"I’m fine. Really." He gives Daniel a weak, red-faced smile. "Thanks, Superwolf."

"Let’s show them the hideout!" Daniel says. Chris nods, his smile growing.

"Yeah! But first—Spirit Squad roll call!"

The boys shuffle, pulling Sean and Finn to their feet and arranging them in a circle. Chris places his hand in the center.

"Captain Spirit!" he cries.

"Superwolf!" says Daniel, slapping his hand atop Chris’. Finn immediately follows.

"Quick Knife!"

"Uh, Silver Runner!"

Sean adds his hand to the pile, feeling gloriously, _resplendently_ stupid. For a moment, the Spirit Squad stands united—then all four of them raise their hands towards the sky.

"No one can defeat justice!" Chris and Daniel cry in unison.

"Fuck _yes_!" Finn cheers. "Justice! Peace and love! All that good shit!" He catches Sean’s hand and presses it to his own chest. "Dude, we got the best fuckin’ team in the _universe_!"

Chris and Daniel beam with pride. Sean tries to smile at both of them, but his eye fixes on Daniel.

"Yeah, you said it, Quick Knife."

"Come _on_!" Daniel says, his impatience finally winning out. "You have to see the Arsenal!"

What he means, of course, is the dugout, filled with an impressive amount of sticks, rocks and frayed baseballs. But that’s not what Daniel calls them.

"We got swords, ammo and… grenades."

He selects a baseball and turns it over in his hand. It must satisfy him because a second later, Daniel turns and launches it across the baseball field. It flies much further and lands much heavier than a baseball should, sending clouds of dirt towards the sky.

" _Boom_!" he cries.

"The Spirit Squad doesn’t really _need_ grenades," Chris says. "Buuuut… they’re cool to practice with."

"Oh! I know!" Daniel jumps in place, struck by an amazing idea. "The swords can be from Quick Knife!"

"Yeah! And he’s like, training us?"

"And we get super good at it ‘cause he, um, shows us secret moves."

Chris takes a stick from the wall and offers it to Finn. His next words are heavy with significance. "Here—the ancient sword of your clan, passed down from your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather."

Finn accepts the stick. His expression is more serious than Sean has ever seen. He holds the stick before his eyes, then slices it through the air.

"I'll wield it with honor," he vows.

"What’s your weapon, Sean?" Daniel asks, turning abruptly. "You could have, um… blasters!"

Sean’s eye settles on Daniel’s arm. Mushroom’s red bandana is there, tied in a loop where Merrill shot him.

"Nah…" he says, then clears his throat. "Silver Runner isn’t a… weapons kind of hero. More of a… distract the bad guys, save the hostages kind."

Daniel shrugs, unconvinced. "Yeah, okay. I guess every team needs a guy like that."

"Yeah," Finn smirks, "a guy who stands around lookin’ pretty while the rest’a us kick ass!"

He gives Sean a light, playful punch. Daniel laughs, but Chris stares at the place where Finn’s hand connected with Sean. There’s something… curious in his expression, something inquisitive, like he’s staring at a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

The bleachers have become a shooting range. Daniel brags that he set it up while Chris was at school, and it shows; there are dozens of old crates and crumpled beer cans stacked together, forming targets of various sizes.

"Yes! Fuckin’ _finally_!" Finn cries, clapping his hands in the air. "Team workout, les’go! Cap’n Spirit’s up first!"

"Oh! Me?" Chris jolts, eager but uncertain. Finn kneels down at his side.

"’Course! You’re the leader, aren’t’cha? Alright, so, what’s your superpower?"

Chris straightens at the word _leader_ , raising his chin. "I can disintegrate things with my energy blast!"

"Energy blast, huh? Pretty sweet… How ‘bout you destroy that trainin’ dummy over there?"

Finn points his stick towards a stack of crates, piled higher than Sean’s head. Daniel must have used his powers to construct it. Chris raises a hand towards the imaginary villain, all five of his fingers spread wide. He begins to make a whirring sound with his mouth, like a car gaining speed as it races down the road.

Sean doesn’t watch the crates. He watches Daniel. The boy doesn’t move—he doesn’t even blink. He just stares at the distant target. Into it. _Through_ it. Then—

" _BOOM!_ " Chris shouts, and Sean hears the sound of a half-dozen old crates exploding from within, cracking, splintering, just like Merrill’s house, with flying debris and shards of glass—

Finn cheers, shaking Chris by the shoulders. "Holy shit, Cap’n! You fuckin’ rule!"

As Chris beams, Daniel looks up at Sean, smiling. Hopeful.

"Y-yeah!" Sean says, far too late, as usual. "That was… really cool, Chris."

"Alright, who’s next? Superwolf?"

"Nah, I wanna see _you_ go!" Daniel says. "Show Chris your knife—the _real_ one!"

"Yeah, alright."

With a lopsided grin and a wink towards Sean, Finn sheaths the stick in his belt and draws his knife. He takes careful aim at three beer cans, stacked into a pyramid.

"Wait!" Daniel cries. He waves his hand, and the cans begin to float, weaving in the air like insects. " _Now_ try to hit them."

Finn steadies his aim, the knife perched in the tips of his fingers. He lets out a slow breath, and his whole body goes deadly still. He looks cool, intense and focused—and unbearably fucking hot.

Faster than Sean can see, Finn launches the knife. A split second later, one of the cans hits the ground, the knife buried perfectly in its center.

Chris and Daniel lose their _minds_. The other cans fall from the air as the boys rush at Finn, hugging and cheering.

"Whoa, I must’a done somethin’ right!" Finn laughs. "Does this mean I can stay on the team?"

"Definitely!" says Chris.

Sean’s turn is next, according to Daniel. Sean rubs the back of his neck.

"Nah, like I said… no weapons."

"But you got that super speed!" Finn says.

"Yeah, he does! Sean’s _really_ fast," Daniel insists, almost begging Chris to believe him. "He used to win races _all_ the time."

"Really? Show us, Sean!"

"Yeah, c’mon, Silver Runner!"

"Please, Sean? _Pleeease_?"

Just one of those bright, pleading faces would be difficult enough to resist—but all three is simply impossible. Sean raises his hands in surrender.

"Yeah, okay."

" _Yesss!_ "

They set up at home plate. While Sean stretches his legs—fuck, it’s been so long since he’s done this—Finn rubs the tattoo on his chin, thoughtfully.

"Wish we had a stopwatch or somethin’," he muses.

"Oh! I’ve got one!" Chris says, showing off the band at his wrist. It’s a cheap, plastic thing covered in Power Bear stickers, but a button at the top lets him record the time.

"Can you do a home run in less than a minute?" Daniel asks.

"Too easy," Sean replies. He could walk the bases in less time.

"Thirty seconds?" Finn suggests. Sean is quiet for a moment, considering.

"Twenty."

Finn claps his back. " _Fuck_ yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!"

Sean dips into a starting position, his eye fixed on first base. He’s unbelievably out of practice—he’s probably going to make an idiot of himself in front of the entire squad.

"Ready—"

No.

"Set—"

 _Fuck it_ , let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s—

"Go!"

Sean is off like a shot. His body, more than his mind, remembers what to do; his arms, his feet, his back all know exactly how to stretch and where to bend for minimum wind resistance.

He reaches first base in an instant, but on the curve—the turn towards second—his feet slide in the dirt, nearly throwing him off-balance. His eye strains—he can’t find the target—

 _Fuck_.

He’s not going to make it. He’s too dizzy, too out of shape. Why didn’t he know—why didn’t he realize—that running wasn’t just about his feet—it was about his _eyes_ —

He rounds second base. Takes a wide curve towards third—too wide. _Shit_.

Sean hears his name, somewhere under the rush of wind, the crunch of dirt, the heave of his own ragged breath—

He pushes harder. Digs deeper. His foot lands heavily on third base. Home is just a short sprint away—behind it, Chris, Finn and Daniel.

A straight shot.

Daniel is jumping. Chris, shouting. Is Sean out of time?

Doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t plan what happens next. He just _acts_. Throwing back his arms, Sean drops his weight, and slides into home base. The Spirit Squad has to dive out of his way; dirt kicks up all around him, curling like smoke, splashing like a wave.

"Ho—ly— _shit_!!!"

"He did it! You did it!"

Suddenly, Sean is on his feet. Three pairs of arms embrace him. Three different voices cheer his name. Six hands ruffle his hair and tug at his shirt and squeeze him tight.

There was a picture on Sean’s wall, back in Seattle. Taken right after a race. Dad stood at Sean’s side and Daniel stood at the other, making some stupid gesture with his arms. Sean always hated that photo—hated how gross he looked, with sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead and damp circles pooling under his arms.

He looks worse now, covered in dirt and patches and stitches. But if Sean had a photo of this moment, he’d keep it forever.

As Chris and Daniel pull away, Finn grasps Sean’s face between his hands.

"That was so— _fuckin’_ — _hot_!" he says. "Dayum! I could watch you do that all _day_ , sweetie!"

Just over Finn’s shoulder, Chris’ brows shoot upwards. Something sparks behind his eyes—like they’ve only just opened, and he can finally _see_ what’s right in front of him. The puzzle, solved.

A feeling very similar to panic rises up in Sean. He knows exactly what Chris is going to say, just a split second before he says it.

"Are you guys, like… boyfriends?"

The question, the look on Chris’ face—they’re the double-punch that knocks the air from Sean’s lungs. Chris’ eyes are so bright, so hopeful. There’s no malice in him. No disgust. Just awe.

Sean should say yes— _could_ say no. He’s caught between both of them. Hovering. Hesitating.

The silence lingers too long. Finn’s hand settles on Sean’s shoulder.

"Never been a huge fan’a labels, little man."

"But do you ever… kiss each other?"

Sean doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He’s floating away, and sinking into the earth at the same time. He wants to look anywhere but at Daniel—and yet he can see nothing else. Daniel’s expression is horribly, heart-stoppingly blank.

"Only when we eat spaghetti," Finn says.

"What?"

"Y’know, like them cartoon dogs! Eatin’ spaghetti off one big plate? Sometimes we go for the same noodle, not realizin’ it ‘til we meet in’a middle."

Chris laughs. Daniel doesn’t. He just stares into the distance, silent and impassive.

"Daniel?" Sean prompts. The boy looks at the sound of his name, slightly startled, as if shaken out of a deep sleep—but he quickly drops Sean’s gaze. "Are you… cool?"

"Yeah, I guess," Daniel murmurs. There’s a pause, a brief moment where Sean doesn’t know if his heart will ever start beating again—and then Daniel looks up. "Hey, I know! Let’s go to the lookout! That’s the best part of the whole base!"

On the door of the commentator’s box is a sign that reads: _SPIRIT SQUAD ONLY._ Inside, Sean finds a small room and a wooden staircase with missing steps. The cement floor is dirty and jagged, with brown weeds pushing up through the cracks.

Daniel rushes up the stairs. The steps creak with protest, threatening to splinter beneath his feet, but Chris follows after him, oblivious to the danger.

"Come on, guys!"

Sean and Finn exchange a look. Finn shrugs.

"Gotta die someday," he says.

"Yeah, but does it have to be _today_?"

Finn mounts staircase. He’s significantly heavier than the two boys, but the steps hold fast. Sean’s pretty sure they’re suspended by wishful thinking alone.

Daniel stands in the center of the second floor, his arms spread wide to reveal the lookout’s full glory. Sean reels. He'd expected sticks and garbage. What he finds is the clubhouse of every kid’s dream.

There are drawings on the wall. A rusted pair folding chairs and card table in the corner. Books and board games. Paper airplanes hung from the ceiling. A crate full of granola bars, candy, beef jerky, cereal—things easily shoplifted, concealed within a pocket or stuffed under a shirt.

A lot of work went into this place. A lot of love. In a strange way, it feels more like Claire’s house than the old, abandoned shack where Mushroom is buried—there’s a warmth here. A sense of home.

It’s the treehouse Sean always wanted. Like the one Stephen built for Chris, instead of his own grandchildren.

"Credit where it’s due!" Finn says, both hands on his hips as he looks around. "Pretty sweet setup you got here."

"Thanks! We worked really hard on it. Chris brought a bunch of stuff from grandma’s house. The rest was just laying around."

"How’d you find this place?"

"I heard about it," Chris answers. "Teenagers like to come here and… be stupid."

 _You mean ‘hook up and get high,_ ’ Sean thinks.

"Not anymore!" Daniel says. "I scared them off. Look-!"

He draws their attention to the window. There’s a long shelf just under the glass; Sean can imagine when it was new, and commentators would sit there, watching the baseball game below. Now, that shelf contains several toys, all standing on guard.

"Any time I see an intruder—boom! The traps go off!"

"Traps?" Sean echoes, his pulse quickening.

"Yeah, you know—the grenades."

Daniel tugs at Finn’s arm, making him look out the window. He explains how just yesterday, he frightened off a group of “bad kids” with drugs and beer. Says they didn’t even make it past the outfield before running away like babies.

Sean looks closer at the drawings on the walls. Most of them depict superheroes; Captain Spirit and Superwolf in dramatic poses, or giving each other high-fives. But some of the drawings… make Sean uneasy. There’s a sasquatch with blood pouring from its head. A huge cat impaled with knives.

Sean’s eye lands on Chris. He’s oddly quiet, sitting atop the card table. His arms are wound around himself, and his gaze, downcast.

 _He’s not okay, Sean_.

"It gets cold at night," Daniel says, "but Sean has a lighter, so, we can actually make a fire! Roast hotdogs! It’ll be great. We just gotta figure out where you’re going to sleep."

Sean turns his whole head. Chris falls into his blind spot as Finn and Daniel slide into view.

"What?"

"I’ve been sleeping up here," Daniel explains, "but there might not be enough room for all of us. Do you still have our tent? We can set it up out back!"

Sean looks at Finn, but Finn… stares out the window. Sean is certain that Finn can feel the intensity of his gaze, but Finn doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t turn his head.

Sean sighs. His fingers curl and uncurl, trying to grasp the right words.

"Daniel… this place is… super cool, and _awesome_ … but… you know we can’t stay here, right?"

Daniel’s expression turns to steel. "Why _not_?"

"It’s not safe, man."

"I _made_ _it_ safe!"

"Listen—those kids you scared off, they’re going to talk. People will come looking. And we need to be long gone by then."

Daniel shoots a glare at Chris. "I _told_ you."

"Don’t get mad…" Chris says weakly.

"I _told_ you!" Daniel repeats. "The minute Sean shows up, he would make me leave! He _always_ makes me leave!"

" _Think_ about it, man!" Sean pleads, his tone a terrible mixture of anger and annoyance. "You have no heat, no water! _Nothing_!"

"I have Chris!" Daniel shouts.

A pause. A long, tense silence, like waiting for the thunderclap after a flash of lightning.

"I think… you should go with them," Chris whispers. Daniel staggers back.

"Finn?" he asks, desperate. "You like the hideout, right?"

Finn finally pulls his attention into the room. His eyes fall heavily on Daniel—Sean’s heart staggers. He knows that look. Knows the gravity of it. It’s a look that centers you, grounds you. A look you can’t… pull away from.

"This is easily— _easily_ —my favorite place in the fuckin' world," he says. "But you know Sean’s right, little man. We need a place that’s gonna last. Somewhere nobody can find us." He tilts his head towards Chris, never taking his eyes off Daniel. "’Less we want ‘em to."

Daniel wavers. He looks so torn—but no longer angry. No longer _betrayed_. Sean wonders if this, perhaps, is Finn’s real super power. His words. His gaze. Under Finn’s eyes, you feel like everything is going to be okay, even when the rest of you is screaming with doubt. Suddenly, you can’t remember why you were afraid to kiss him, or steal a truck, or break into Merrill’s house.

 _What are you afraid of, then_? Finn asks, his face lit orange with lamplight, his fingers curled around Sean’s thigh.

Sean swallows. _Nothing_.

"Yeah," Daniel says with slumped shoulders. "Yeah, I know. You’re right." His eyes turn to Sean. "I want to find Mom."

Sean tilts back his head. _Damnit_.

"Come on, man…"

"Why can’t we?" Daniel sounds on the verge of tears.

"I’ve told you… She doesn’t give a shit about us. We need to start over, in _Puerto Lobos_."

Fuck, it’s been forever since he’s said those words. Daniel has been the goal for so long that Sean struggles to see the new finish line. Shifting his gaze to something else, some _where_ else, is much harder than it used to be. Sean feels like he did turning the curve to second base; dizzy and off-balance.

Daniel makes a groan of frustration. His head turns to Finn at the exact same moment as Sean’s.

Finn backs away from both of them, slouching even more than usual. Every inch of him radiates discomfort. Once again, he’s the tiebreaker, caught at the fork in a road.

"It ain’t my call," he murmurs.

" _Finn_ …" Daniel pleads. Sean communicates the same thing with only a frown. Finn runs both hands through his hair, gripping the dreadlocks.

" _Alright_! Dayum. Geeze. I guess… I don’t…" He sighs heavily. "I don’t see much point in chasin’ down a momma that ditched you."

Daniel’s arms curl around himself. He looks so hurt and forlorn—Sean almost feels guilty. _Almost_. Mostly he’s just relieved.

"I’m sorry, Daniel," Finn says. "But, y’know… Sometimes you gotta leave that shit behind. Don’t even look back. ‘Cause the people that hurt you—they don’t ever change."

" _That’s not true!_ "

Sean jolts violently. The outburst isn’t from Daniel—it’s from Chris, silent and forgotten in Sean’s blind spot. Sean staggers backward, rearranging his whole body to see everyone at once.

Chris is still sitting on the card table, but now he’s straight-backed and rigid. Hands clenched into fists. His pale face has gone pink again, his eyes ringed red from the threat of tears.

"My dad is getting better!" Chris shouts. "He’s _going_ to get better! He promised—he _promised_ he won’t hurt me anymore! So don’t say that people don’t change!"

His words reverberate through the air, echoing around them long after the room has gone silent. Finn looks—shaken. There’s no other way to describe it. Pinned beneath Chris’ gaze, Finn is suddenly the one thrown off-balance, the one pulled into someone else’s gravity.

"Chris…" Sean says carefully. "It’s… it’s not the same. Your dad is sick. Karen… just decided to leave. That’s not something that gets better."

Chris blinks hard. His tears are so close to spilling out. For a moment, the Spirit Squad lingers in silence, disjointed, broken—until Finn steps forward, gripping Daniel in one hand and Sean in the other.

"Maybe we don’t pick a destination now. Maybe all that matter is we’re together. One big, fucked-up family, right?"

Daniel smiles up at him—or, tries to. "Yeah. Okay."

"Sure," Sean agrees. He’s too dizzy to see a new finish line anyway. That’ll come later. Eventually.

"What about Chris?" Daniel asks.

"I’ll be fine," Chris says, hopping off his table. He wipes a hand across his face and tries to smile. "Really. Things are good. Grandma and Grandpa are awesome. They gave me lots of Mom's old toys—and I get to sleep in her room! It's really cool."

"You won't be... lonely?" Daniel asks.

"No way! The kids here are… nicer than the ones back home. They don’t know about my dad. I’m… making friends."

He sounds so hopeful—maybe even a little proud of himself. Somehow, this goodbye feels a lot better than their first one in Beaver Creek.

The sun is just beginning to set when they return to the truck. Chris walks with them, holding hands with Daniel and making plans to call and write. The Spirit Line will always be open.

"Can you… give us a minute?" Chris asks, as they step into the parking lot. Sean hesitates.

"Uh, sure," he says. He hates himself for it, but he can’t shake the feeling that the moment he turns his back, Daniel will run away.

He turns anyway. Slides into the passenger’s seat of the truck; Finn is already behind the steering wheel. Sean watches Chris and Daniel in the rearview mirror.

Chris digs something out of his backpack—a sheet of paper, Sean thinks. Whatever it says, whatever Chris has written or drawn, clearly delights Daniel. He wraps Chris in a tight hug. Silhouetted against the sunset, they linger for some time. United.

Then Daniel pulls back. They step apart, but… neither of them walks away. Chris reaches out, taking Daniel’s face between his hands. Even from a distance, Sean can see his fingers tremble. The touch is feather-light.

The kiss he presses to Daniel’s forehead is soft and fleeting. No more than a whisper. A butterfly.

It’s so pure and chaste that suddenly, Sean feels guilty. He looks down at his hands, ashamed for intruding. This moment belongs to Chris and Daniel, and no one else. Not even Super Bro.

"Ready for the next adventure, little man?" Finn says, as Daniel climbs across Sean’s lap to sit between them.

"Huh?" he asks, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Oh—yeah! Let’s do it!"

" _Hells_ yes!" Finn cries. His arm stretches across Daniel’s shoulders to lay a heavy hand on Sean. Sean grips him back as their truck rumbles down the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda feels like an ending, huh? But the journey's not over yet! Still a few more places to go, still a few more things to see.
> 
> I really hope this chapter is as satisfying for all of you as it was for me. This moment of Sean, Finn, Daniel and Chris--the entire Spirit Squad!--all united, playing games, was something I knew I wanted to do as soon as I started writing this fic. There's just so much stuff I planned, daydreamed about, drafted and re-drafted... this whole chapter came from a very delicate place inside of me, and I really hope you all enjoyed it!
> 
> The reunion between Sean and Daniel was particularly... emotional for me. My feelings went all over the place about it. I stared at this piece of fanart ( https://ildayone.tumblr.com/post/184991884732/its-ok-enano-im-ok ) a lot while writing it... It really helped me remember what I wanted out of the scene. I wanted their reunion to be happy and tender, and I think this piece of fanart captures that emotion so well. I'm sobbing.
> 
> Oh, and I have another "headcanon" about this chapter, like the one I had before about Sean increasing his emotional intimacy with Finn by sharing his bed. To me, the moment when Sean hesitates to answer Chris' question ("Are you like, boyfriends?") is one of those in the actual game where if you take too long to make a dialogue choice, the other characters move on without you. Sean hesitated too long--so Finn stepped in, and deflected the question with humor.
> 
> I think seeing two people as cool as Sean and Finn be unashamedly themselves would definitely embolden Chris. Finn's casual tone about kissing another guy is what encouraged Chris to kiss Daniel's forehead at the end of the chapter. If Sean had said no, and denied being Finn's boyfriend, Chris wouldn't have felt encouraged enough to show that much affection. But of course, I'm a huge softie, so... of course Chris is going to be encouraged!


	7. seventh step

"Alright! _First_ — _order_ — _’a_ — _fuckin’_ — _business_!" Finn slaps his hand on the steering wheel, emphasizing each word. "Pizza party!"

Daniel brightens, wedged between Finn and Sean. "Really?!"

" _Fuck_ yes. Family reunion calls for somethin’ special, don’tcha think?"

"Yeah! We should get, um—burgers, too! And slushies! And ice cream! And-"

"Hang, on, _enano_ ," Sean says, a smile on his face despite his sad tone. "We can’t afford all that."

Sean is sitting uncomfortably, turned sideways in his seat to keep Finn and Daniel out of his blind spot. If he sat properly, facing the windshield, he wouldn’t be able to see either of them at all—something Sean won’t allow, after so long apart.

"Oh! That’s okay! I have money!" Daniel says.

"What?"

Daniel folds at the waist, groping for a backpack stashed at Sean’s feet. It’s faded and crusty; Sean assumed Daniel picked it up on the road, but now that he looks at it more closely, he thinks he might have seen it lying around Merrill’s porch.

Daniel pulls the backpack into his lap and opens it. His hands plunge inside, digging, searching, then draws out—

"Holy _shit_ , dude!"

Sean snatches the money out of Daniel’s hands, counting it. There are two stacks, a mix of tens and twenties bound with white tape; nearly two-thousand dollars, in all.

" _That’s_ my little man!" Finn says, throwing an arm around Daniel and pulling him into a sideways hug.

Daniel laughs in his grip. They’re both beaming, smiling—but the money makes Sean uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite place. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s because this recontextualizes the image he had in his head; the image of Daniel, in the wreckage of Merrill’s house, so scared and hurt that he runs off without thinking.

But that never happened. No, Daniel stood amidst all that carnage—over Finn’s unconscious body and Sean’s bleeding remains—and took the time to find a backpack and grab a handful of bills. His abandonment was deliberate. Calculated—because _of course_ it was. He wanted to see Chris. He wanted to be with anyone that wasn’t Sean.

" _Dude_ …!" Sean says, the hurt evident in his tone. Daniel looks at him, confused, and Sean realizes that he can’t exactly lecture Daniel for leaving them, not after all the danger Sean and Finn put him in.

But Sean has to say something. He has to make Daniel understand that this isn’t okay.

"Why—why have you been stealing, if you had all this cash?"

Daniel shifts under Finn’s arm; a shield against Sean’s disapproval. "I _tried_ to pay for things! But people kept bugging me."

He says this with his eyes pointed forward, his jaw set and stern. He has the look of a kid getting blamed for something he didn’t do, sulking at the profound unfairness of the world. Sean suddenly remembers Doris Stamper, frowning over that gas station register, hassling Sean about his parents’ whereabouts. He can only imagine what she would’ve done if Daniel had walked in on his own.

Finn’s arm jostles around Daniel. "Hey, cheer up, little man! Ain’t no one gonna mess us with now!"

"Yeah, and if they do— _boom_!" Daniel kicks the dashboard, laughing.

Finn laughs, too. Like it’s all a game. Like Daniel’s power in a shiny, new toy.

They pull into the parking lot of a local pizza place. Most of the spaces are full, and the windows are alight with warmth and energy. Maybe it’s Friday night—Sean really doesn’t know. He stopped keeping track a long time ago. He breathes through his nose, telling himself everything is going to be fine. They’re together now; _one big, fucked-up family_. Besides, maybe this place has a pinball machine, or an old arcade game. They can spare a few quarters to let Daniel blow off some steam.

"No."

Daniel grabs Sean— _tight_. Sean’s door is already open, and Finn is halfway through his own, but Daniel stays firmly in the middle seat. Sean looks at their joined hands. Daniel’s knuckles are white.

"Daniel—what’s wrong?"

Finn leans back into the car. "What’s the trouble, little man?"

"I don’t want to go inside," he says. He doesn’t look at either of them. Sean and Finn look at each other.

"Uh… that’s cool!" Finn says. "You an’ Sean stay here, an’ I’ll grab the-"

" _No_!" Daniel says again. Sean places a hand on Daniel’s back.

"Hey, hey… What’s up?" He was so excited, a moment ago.

"We can’t… park here," Daniel says, still staring at the dashboard. "Out front. We should… go around back."

A pause. Then, without a word, Finn crawls back into the driver’s seat and moves their truck into an alley, behind the pizzeria. There’s nothing back here but a dumpster and a few silver trashcans. Daniel visibly relaxes.

"Yeah… This is better." He lets go of Sean’s hand.

"Alright… I’ll make this real quick! You want pepp’roni, right?"

"And extra cheese!" Daniel says, suddenly happy again. Sean feels like he’s on a roller coaster, rocketing up and down with Daniel’s mood.

The two brothers climb into the truck bed and spread out. Daniel takes great joy in climbing through the back window; Sean remembers when Daniel did the same in reverse, the night they stole this truck. Remembers Daniel’s tiny hand, flashing him a thumbs up from this exact window.

"Hey, Daniel…" he says, once they’ve settled into place. They’re cross-legged, facing each other, sitting knee-to-knee. The sky is that special color of purple-orange, just after the sun has set, but night has not truly begun. "Is everything… okay?"

Daniel shrugs. "Yeah. I’m cool." He looks around, thinking, before he spots something in the sky. "Hey look! Full moon!"

He tilts back his head and howls. Sean doesn’t join him—his chest hurts too much. He thinks about his grandparents’ backyard, that horrible week where he and Daniel were told to be quiet and tame; two young wolves cooped up indoors. Back then, just a small bit of snow-covered yard seemed like freedom, and they’d howled at the bright, blue sky.

Oh, to go back there. To stay in that house and never howl at the sky. To be a good, tame wolf safe by the fire, never running free, never fearing danger, never starving or hiding or losing Daniel or meeting Finn…

Sean’s not sure he would actually do it. But he’s not so certain he _wouldn’t_.

"You were on your own for a while, man…" Sean’s tone is careful, quiet. It cuts perpendicular to Daniel’s carefree howl. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Daniel’s expression hardens. "No."

Sean exhales. His head drops and his hands jangle in his lap. "Please, _enano_. I just… I want to help."

"What’s to say?!" Daniel says sharply. "It fucking _sucked_ , Sean."

 _Fucking_. Daniel didn’t used to swear before, not even at the drifter’s camp, where profanity was the primary language. Sean frowns at his hands. It’s only been three weeks—the first week, when Sean was unconscious, and the two that he and Finn spent chasing Daniel—but Daniel has changed so much.

Then again, the same could be said about Sean.

That night. The party. When Sean sat with Finn in the orange lamplight, away from the music, away from the noise, the haze of weed. When Finn eased open Sean’s heart with gentle hands, and then eased open his mouth with gentle lips…

That night changed fucking everything.

"I wish you could talk to me," Sean says. "I wish… you’d told me things, before. About… Quick Knife. And Chris. The Spirit Line."

Sean can hear the scowl on Daniel’s lips. "I _tried_. You wouldn’t listen."

"I know. I’m sorry, _enano_. But I’m listening now. I _promise_ , I’m going to listen from now on."

Promise. That’s an important word, between the two of them. It means Chock-O-Crisps and sodas and no more lies. Gentle words in the eye of a terrible hurricane, a storm of Daniel’s own making.

Daniel’s next words are small. Fragile. Like broken pieces that could maybe, one day, mend themselves, if they don’t break any further.

"I wanted to find Mom. But Arizona was… too far. Chris was closer. And I… I still didn’t think I’d make it."

Sean bridges what little space remains between them, gripping Daniel by the upper arms.

"But you _did_ make it, _enano_ ," he says urgently. "You did it. I’m so… _so_ proud of you."

A wet sniffle. Trembling limbs as they lean forward and press together, brow to brow. They linger like that for a while, two young wolves in the waning light, sitting beneath the moon.

Finn returns like the sunrise, shining his warmth over everything. He brings an extra-large pizza and large bottle of soda that they all drink from. It’s far too large for Daniel’s hands and ends up spilling on his filthy shirt. He only laughs.

They’re definitely staying in a motel tonight. Daniel needs a bath. And a change of clothes. And someone to check that wound, concealed by Mushroom’s old bandana.

The orange in the sky slowly vanishes, and darkness settles around them. A light posted above the back door of the pizzeria illuminates the truck bed, reminding Sean of his back porch in Seattle. Dad’s barbecues. Dad and his friend Sam, drinking beers under the porchlight while Sean and Daniel chase each other around the yard.

This feels exactly the same. Close. Comfortable. When Finn takes a bite of pizza, he pulls the slice away from his mouth, stretching the cheese into thin, white strings. Daniel holds up a pepperoni to his nose, red and round like a clown’s.

Then—Daniel goes still, his body tense and alert, like an animal sensing danger. Sean follows his gaze, and sees a homeless man shuffling into the alley. He pays them no mind; his attention is focused entirely on the silver trashcans, which he starts picking through with slow, quiet hands.

Until the dumpster next to him _bursts_.

It’s like a cherrybomb going off inside. The lid flies open; garbage shoots into the air. The sides of the dumpster bow and bloat, suddenly expanding from too much pressure, too much force.

The homeless man runs. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Commotion inside the pizzeria; the sounds of movement behind the back door.

Sean catches one, single image in his mind before they book it; before Finn and Sean scramble for their doors and Daniel climbs through the back window. He sees Daniel, focused and intense, his eyes filled more hate than any nine-year-old should have.

And he sees Finn, mouth half-open, awed—like the exploding dumpster is a firework, beautiful and bright. That awe flares on his face, before reaching its apex, and as old napkins and paper plates flutter to the ground, Finn’s face smooths into something else. Something not quite admiration. Something very, very close to envy.

"Dude, what was that?!" Sean asks, twisted around in his seat once more. Daniel sits in the middle with his legs up, feet pressed to the dashboard.

"He was gonna bug us!" Daniel says viciously.

"No, dude—he was just looking through the garbage." _Fuck_ , this is why it was so easy to track him.

" _You don’t know, Sean!_ "

"Hey now!" Finn reaches with his right hand, placing a hand flat on Daniel’s chest. Dad used to do the same thing, when Sean rode in the front seat of his car. Any time he had to slam the brakes, Dad’s arm would shoot out, preventing Sean from lurching forward. "Easy. Let’s all calm down. It weren’t nothin’. Just a little excitement."

 _Excitement_. Sure. Okay. If that’s what you want to call setting off a bomb for no damn reason, and probably, _definitely_ alerting the cops.

Daniel still looks pissed off, though less so, under Finn’s arm. Sean longs to trade places with him, to feel the weight of Finn’s hand steadying his erratic heartbeat.

He tries to breathe. Tries to calm down, all on his own. That’s how it has to be from now on. No more… kite strings. No more kissing Finn any time he wants to. Or being held, any time he needs to.

"Daniel…" Sean says, but stops when his voice wavers. He takes another deep breath. "Daniel… You know… you’re safe now, right?"

Daniel shrugs, his face stern… but loosening. Sean adds his hand atop Finn’s.

"I… _Finn_ and I… are going to make sure… _no one_ hurts you. _Ever_ again."

"We gotchu, little man," says Finn.

Daniel’s fingers brush over both of theirs. Sean is amazed by how big his own hand looks by comparison.

"Yeah…" Daniel says. His chest expands beneath Finn’s palm. His brow goes smooth. "Yeah. Okay."

After a short stop (where of course, they parked in the back) the three of them pile into a motel room with two narrow beds. Sean holds a plastic bag from the drugstore; inside, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, bandages, and a small sewing kit.

"Sit here, little man," says Finn. He flips down the lid of the bathroom toilet, and when Daniel complies Finn takes a seat beside him, balanced on the edge of the tub. Sean sits on the floor, feeling helpless and anxious as Finn rolls up Daniel’s sleeve and peels away Mushroom’s bandana.

"Well?" Sean says. Finn’s been staring at the wound for a long time.

"Just grazed ‘im…" Finn replies. His tone is distant, his eyes focused on Daniel’s arm.

"I didn’t see a bullet," offers Daniel. "But I… tried to keep it clean."

"I can tell!"  says Finn. He glances at Sean. "S’not infected…"

Sean exhales with relief. He never really paid attention in Biology class, but he remembers that you’re not supposed to share antibiotics. Still, if Daniel’s arm had been infected, Sean isn’t sure he’d have been able to resist.

"Well, that’s the good news," Finn sighs. "Bad news is, I’d feel a lot better if we stitched it."

Daniel whines. Finn promised him that if it wasn’t bad, they would wrap it in bandages and leave it at that. He looks at the needle with a quivering lip.

Sean grips Daniel’s knee. "Hey—Finn knows what he’s doing. Who do you think took care of me?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Finn is the best nurse ever."

Technically, it was the clinic staff who stitched up Sean’s eye—but he’s not going to tell Daniel that. Finn, meanwhile, is smiling to himself, no doubt recalling kisses laced with painkillers.

Speaking of which—Sean opens the bottle and tips a white pill into Daniel’s hand, just to make the whole thing easier. Daniel swallows it with a sip of water, then very pointedly looks away as Finn sets to work.

"Sean?" Daniel’s tone is cautious, maybe even a little afraid. "Can I… see?"

Sean doesn’t understand at first. Can he see… what?

Daniel hesitates. His gaze lingers on Sean’s left side, then drops away, ashamed of his question.

Oh.

"You… You sure, _enano_?"

Daniel looks up. "…yeah."

Sean’s heart is beating, but what’s odd is that it isn’t particularly fast or slow. He’s just very, very aware of its presence in his chest. His hand is surprisingly steady as he reaches for the eyepatch, and lifts it.

Daniel stares. His expression doesn’t change.

Until it suddenly does.

"I’m _so_ _sorry_ , Sean—"

Sean lowers the eyepatch, simultaneously reaching for Daniel. "Hey, it’s not your fault-"

"I didn’t mean to-" the boy blubbers.

"Shh, _enano_ , it’s okay-"

Fat, round tears roll down Daniel’s cheek, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to wipe them away, his body still. The only part of him that moves is his heaving chest and his face, contorting with a myriad of emotions, all spilling out of him at once.

"It’s all my fault," he sobs.

"No, it’s not," Sean says again.

"Yes, it is! Yes-"

" _Hey_." Finn’s needle stops moving. He grips Daniel’s forearm. "Listen to Sean. It weren’t your fault, little man."

Daniel shudders with a great, tortured sob. He heaves like that for a long while, Sean’s hand on his knee and Finn’s deft fingers working on his arm. Slowly, those heaves become hiccups, become trembling tears.

When his stitches are done, Sean draws a bath for Daniel, like he did in the Three Seal motel, back when their journey began. They were younger then, much younger, for if the last three weeks have changed them, then the last four months have remade them entirely, melted them down and reformed them from the slag.

Finn goes out to the porch for a smoke, but Sean stays in the bathroom while Daniel bathes. Helps him wash his hair and keep his stitches dry. Daniel is… definitely too old for that, but Sean is content to pretend that he isn’t, because they both know that Daniel can’t stand to be alone right now.

Daniel’s new clothes also come from the drugstore. They lucked out there; amongst the _Welcome To Nevada!_ and tacky tourist shirts, they were able to find one in Daniel’s size with Aweso heroes printed on it. It looks a lot like the shirt Chris used to wear, making Daniel smile as he towels himself dry.

"…really tired, Sean…"

Maybe it’s the painkillers, or maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, but Daniel passes out before he can get under the covers. Sean smiles, faintly; he shifts Daniel around to tuck him in properly, and for a moment the boy looks almost comfortable. Almost safe and content.

Sliding the glass door aside, Sean steps onto the porch. He rubs both hands across his face. What a day. What a long, fucking day.

Finn is there, hunched on a plastic chair. He doesn’t speak as Sean leans backwards against the porch railing. He just drags on his cigarette, his gaze distant. Thoughtful. Wheels spinning. Mind turning.

"Thanks, man," Sean says.

Finn’s eyes flick upwards. Whatever was spinning in his mind just took a sharp turn. "What?"

"Thank you," Sean echoes. "For everything, today. Playing with Chris and Daniel. Taking my side… about Karen."

Finn laughs through his nose and leans back, crossing his legs out in front of him. "Didn’t do nothin’ special."

"No, dude. You were amazing," Sean insists. "I couldn’t… have done _any_ of this… without you."

 _I can’t do this on my own_ , Dad says, sitting on the edge of Sean’s bed. He sounds like a man with many long miles behind him, and still many more left to go. _I… can’t. I need you to help me_.

 _We’re a trio now_.

Finn drags on his cigarette. His hands settle on his stomach. "So. What’chu thinkin’? Keep headin’ down south? Or back west, to California?"

Sean rocks against the railing. Next to Finn is the sliding glass door, and beyond, Daniel’s sleeping form. Sean can see both of them at the same time. "What do you mean?"

"Be real nice to find that beach house, sweetie. Coconut cocktails optional."

A pleasant warmth spreads through Sean’s chest, but he doesn’t answer. He feels… dizzy. Disoriented. Turning around and around in a forest, trying to find a path through identical trees. With Daniel at last beside him, the world is open in a way it simply wasn’t before—but the fog hasn’t lessened. His steps are every bit as unsure, and he has no idea which way to go next.

"Mexico, I guess," he says at last.

"You don’t sound so sure."

"No, I am," Sean sighs. "I mean… where else are we supposed to go?"

"Anywhere you want, sweetheart."

Sean laughs humorlessly. Right. Like it’s that easy. Like they can just… forget about the cops chasing them, or the carnage they’ve behind. Merrill’s house. Beaver Creek. Claire and Stephen, taken away in handcuffs…

"No, it has to be Mexico," Sean says. "That’s the only place we can be safe. That’s… where we belong."

Finn rocks his head towards the glass door. "He won’t like it."

"He’s never liked it," Sean murmurs. Not once, this entire trip. There hasn’t been a single day, a single step where Daniel didn’t look backwards, longing for Noah or Chris or Karen.

Finn snuffs out his cigarette on the arm of his plastic chair. "So… I guess we just keep goin’ south. Break it to ‘im slow."

Sean nods, thinking. "If we’re… careful… with Daniel’s money…" Sean says each word deliberately, working it out with his mouth as much as his mind. "We can make it last and… find odd jobs? Watch him in shifts? Save up, until we have enough to cross the border?"

Finn rocks his head and... _fuck_ , does that feel good. Not just to have a plan, but to have someone to talk it through with, someone to help him make these hard decisions. Sean is no stranger to difficult choices, but they seem… easier… with a nod of Finn’s head.

Finn stands up, drawing up close to Sean and wrapping both arms around his waist.

"We’ll go on down to good ol’ _México…_ " he says, a playful grin working its way across his lips. "Get us that beach house… an’ fuck in the sand."

Sean both loves and hates the whine that rises up in the back of his throat. " _Fuck_ yes."

That’s it. Right there. The finish line. The goal. A home for Daniel, and a porch to sit on with Finn, where they can drink beers and watch the sunset.

Finn kisses him then, with soft, hopeful lips, and Sean realizes that they haven’t kissed since this morning, in that last motel room, where Finn laid him down on clean sheets and wide blankets. He remembers how they stretched out those last few hours together, and how when their time ran out, Finn dragged him down just one more, _one more_ , and how getting out of that bed was one of the hardest things Sean has ever done.

" _Fuck_ …" Sean says, breathless, his hands on Finn’s face and brow pressed to Finn’s forehead. "I miss you already."

"Am I goin’ somewhere?" Finn teases. His fingers run up and down the small of Sean’s back, tracing his spine, and the sensations it creates are warm and secretive.

"You better not," grins Sean. "But… you know what I mean."

Finn hums. He knows. He knows _exactly_ what Sean means, but Sean needs to say it. He needs to hear it out loud.

"This thing we have… is going to be… harder… with Daniel around."

"Don’t think I could get much _harder_ , sweetie."

"Finn…"

"Yeah, I know." Finn pulls back just enough to meet Sean’s eye. "It’s gonna be tough to figure out. But we’ll get there. Least, I hope so… ‘cause I’m _addicted_ to this ass."

His hand slips lower, and squeezes—and Sean laughs, wriggling in Finn’s grasp. The motion exposes his throat, and Finn seizes the opportunity to nip at Sean’s ear.

When they go inside, Sean hesitates. He’s here again, standing in a dark hotel room, caught between two beds.

"Yeah, go on," Finn says, nodding towards Daniel. "Wakin’ up next to Big Brother’ll mean a lot to ‘im."

Sean smiles in thanks, and as Finn curls up alone, Sean crawls into bed beside Daniel, and falls asleep listening to his slow, steady breath.

 

*

 

Sean wakes—but doesn’t open his eyes. He can hear a Hawt Dog Man cartoon. Daniel must be watching television in the living room.

Wait—is it Saturday? Sean can’t remember. Does he have school? Work? Oh shit, what day is it?!

His eyes fly open. Or, one of them does. The other— _fuck_ —!

Sean sits bolt upright. He’s not in his room in Seattle, but a motel in Nevada. And Daniel—

Sean’s eye swivels. His whole head turns, searching, until at last he finds Daniel on the other bed, propped up next to Finn on a stack of pillows.

Both of them are eating cereal out of a box, utterly captivated by the dancing cartoon hot dog. Finn is the first to notice Sean.

"Mornin’, sleepyhead."

"Come watch with us!" says Daniel.

"Uh… yeah, in a minute," Sean replies, still shaken. When will he stop trying to open his left eye?

He gets up. Goes to the bathroom. Scrubs away a layer of morning breath and combs out his ever-growing hair. When he steps back into the bedroom, Finn and Daniel are transfixed on the television once more. They sit close together, Daniel curled up at Finn’s side. It’s such a sweet scene that Sean is struck with the urge to capture it—not just in the sketchbook of his mind, but on real paper, with real ink.

He settles into bed—the one he shared last night with Daniel. He opens his sketchbook and flips past all the old drawings and—hands trembling—turns to a blank page.

 _Time to take the pen, dude_.

He tries. He really does. But his hands just can’t figure out how much space exists between him and page. He hunches over, bringing his face so close to the paper, his nose smears the ink—but the pen still won’t go where he wants it to.

The drawings he made while drunk look better than this.

Sean snaps the sketchbook closed. Finn’s head turns towards the sound.

"You okay, sweetie?"

Sean shrugs. "Yeah."

There’s a pause. Hawt Dog Man chases Mustard Lady in a circle.

"Be part’a the picture," Finn says.

"What?"

Finn tilts his head, inviting Sean to join them once more. "Be _part’a_ the picture, Sean."

He does. With a great shuffle of limbs and pillows, Sean stretches out beside Finn. Finn is now comfortably wedged between the two young wolves, an arm around each of them. Sean’s head rests on Finn’s shoulder.

Yeah. Okay. This is nicer than a sketch. Warmer, too, and just as everlasting, for in this moment something writes itself on Sean’s heart the same way pen writes on paper.

His cheek slides along Finn’s shoulder. Finn turns his head, slightly, and their eyes meet. It’s not difficult for their lips to do the same.

"Don’t."

The kiss breaks, just as Daniel pulls away.

"Don’t," he says again, stern.

"Aww, we didn’t forget ‘bout you!" Finn laughs, pouncing on Daniel and tickling him mercilessly.

But Daniel doesn’t laugh. He twists away, scooting to the edge of the bed. He sits there with his back to Sean and Finn, feet dangling towards the ground. " _Stop_. I’m not a little kid."

Finn freezes, his expression stunned. Sean’s heart is pounding. This is worse than showing Daniel his stitches. This is like having something new ripped out of him, every bit as real and visceral as his eye.

" _Daniel_ … What’s the problem?"

"I don’t like it," Daniel says urgently. Not in the- the way that blows up dumpsters, but in a way Sean feels right down in his bones, where the desire to _run_ never quite leaves him.

"Don’t like what?" His brother, kissing? His brother kissing another _guy_?

"I don’t like you guys being… _fuck buddies_."

He says it a tone that immediately reminds Sean of Hannah. Finn jerks beside him, saying, "Now, _hang on_ -"

"I’m not stupid!" Daniel cries, looking over his shoulder. Sean realizes—with a horrible, traitorous swell of relief—that Daniel’s entire focus is on Finn. Perfect, wonderful, flawless Finn. Quick Knife, with whom Daniel shares all his secrets. "You think I don’t know what you did with Hannah? All those… _tent-shaking_ things?"

Sean’s eye is on Daniel, but he can feel how rigid Finn goes.

"You got me wrong, little man."

Daniel makes a small, exasperated sound, and turns away. "Our tent was _right next_ to yours, Finn."

Sean remembers when he was Daniel’s age. Or, maybe just a little younger. Trying to sneak into his parents’ room, only to find the door locked and hearing… noises, from inside. He had a vague inclination of what they were doing, knew the basic facts of how babies were made. He ran away from that door and went to Lyla’s house to play, and he didn’t come back until Lyla’s mom kicked him out because it was dinner time and Lyla hadn’t finished her homework. When Sean walked through his front door, he saw Dad and Karen in the kitchen. Dad was stirring a pot of pasta sauce while Karen wrapped her arms around his waist, smiling with her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

It was warm, and affectionate, and loving, but Sean still couldn’t shake the feeling that they had done something dirty, something shameful and far beyond his comprehension, like a beast lurking beneath his bed in the middle of the night.

Sean tries to imagine what it must have been like for Daniel in that drifter’s camp, having only the worst idea of what Finn was doing to make his tent shake. Then Sean tries to imagine what it must be like for Daniel now, knowing that Finn is doing all of those things to his brother.

Finn reaches out, placing a hand on Daniel’s back, but when Daniel flinches beneath the touch, Finn pulls away. He looks to Sean in earnest, and that traitorous relief swells up again. Sean hates himself for it, but it feels good to know that there are some things Quick Knife can’t fix.

"Hey, Daniel…" Sean says carefully. His hands come together and separate, as if trying to fit together his words. "You know… it isn’t like that, right? Finn and I aren’t—" Shit, there’s no other way to say it. "— _fuck buddies_."

Daniel looks over his shoulder again, doubtful.

" _Boyfriends_ , then," he says, as if it’s just as dirty a word, and Sean falters because Esteban and Karen were married, and what they did together was still shameful inside an eight-year-old mind.

How does Sean… explain to Daniel… how patient Finn is with him? How generous and kind, when they’re in bed? There are no words for it that Daniel will understand, their definitions meaningless and hollow.

"Family," Finn says abruptly.

Sean turns, casting Daniel into his blind spot to behold Finn completely.

"We’re _family_ ," he repeats.

And Sean is standing in a baseball field with Chris staring up at him, and Finn’s hand heavy on his shoulder. _Never been a huge fan’a labels, little man_.

But there it is. Finn’s been saying it all along.

"Hannah said you were family." Daniel twists around, sitting cross-legged to face Finn and Sean. "She said it _all_ the time. And where is she?"

He gestures broadly, as if expecting Hannah to materialize from the air. When she doesn’t, Daniel turns his pleading eyes on Sean.

"Why can’t we just be _brothers_?"

The way he says that word shakes all the way to Sean’s core. He says it with weight and significance, as if out of all the labels Daniel has ever used—friends, family, Mom, Dad— _brothers_ was the only constant, the one unshakable truth in all the world.

Sean’s hand finds Daniel’s knee. Daniel doesn’t flinch away.

"Hey… of _course_ Finn is your brother."

Doubt tugs once more at Daniel’s mouth. "How can he be my brother, but not yours?"

"I told you, dude…" Sean smiles slowly, trying to prompt Daniel to do the same. "We make our own rules."

Daniel shuffles, still uncertain, but… coming around. "So… You’ll both stay with me, even if you don’t stay together?"

"Hells yeah!" Finn lays his hand atop Sean’s, steadying Daniel the same way they did the truck, with ten fingers splayed over Daniel’s heartbeat. "Ain’t _nothin’_ tearin’ us apart."

Relief floods Daniel’s face. His whole body relaxes, and Sean can’t help the pride that rushes through him, because for all the times he envied Quick Knife, he’s glad to be Super Bro.

 

*

 

The ground is beginning to solidify beneath Sean’s feet. The fog, gently rolling back.

He still wakes disoriented. Still needs a moment each morning to remember where he is and why he can’t open both eyes. But Sean can finally… just barely… see where he’s going.

They travel south, down through Nevada. Hopefully Daniel won’t realize just how close they are to Arizona until they’re ready for Mexico. He lost his interest in maps and road signs ages ago; now that they’re no longer walking everywhere, all Daniel really cares about is that he gets to sit between Sean and Finn. He still whines for Chock-O-Crisps and slushies and pizza, but between the money he stole from Merrill and what Sean and Finn earned working the pot farm, it’s easier to give him those things.

He whines for Sean’s painkillers, too. They help him sleep; knock him right out, like flipping a switch. This means more headaches for Sean during the day, but it’s better than Daniel’s tears in the middle of the night.

Daniel is getting used to… whatever Sean and Finn have. Seeing them together. Seeing them kiss. Watching Finn slide an arm around Sean and draw him close. This harmless, casual affection made Sean uncomfortable at first, keenly aware of the crease in Daniel’s brow, but he can’t deny how badly he still needs to feel Finn’s weight around him—or how desperately he misses having Finn inside of him.

They still find time for… that. Kind of. Most nights, they sleep in tents; there’s not enough room in Sean’s tent for three, so Daniel and Sean share while Finn sleeps in his old tent, the one he used to shake with Hannah, and Sean is left lying beside Daniel, staring up at the ceiling and missing Finn.

But sometimes, there’s a motel room. And there, Sean and Finn can find a moment on the porch, or in the shower, when Daniel is fast asleep and they can exist as nothing more than wandering hands and eager mouths.

"Missed this…" Sean murmurs, barely audible under the stream of water.

"Missed _you_ ," is Finn’s reply, low and sweet against Sean’s neck. He licks the rivulets there, sucks like these are the first drops of water he’s seen in days. "That tent is so fuckin _’_ _cold_ , baby…"

Yes. Yes, it is, but the shower is warm and _here_ and _now_ and Sean refuses to be anywhere else. With his arms wrapped tight around Finn’s shoulders and a leg slung over his hip, Sean lets Finn press him hard against the shower wall and thrust up into him, good and long and deep.

The sound that escapes Sean is needy and too loud. Finn silences him with a kiss and rolls his hips; sliding out but not _all the way_ out, then _slamming_ back in again, as high as he can go. He pounds into Sean with abandon, pace lost, thrust erratic; it’s hurried and desperate and far too quick for Sean’s liking. Their limbs slide together and Sean can’t quite get a grip of Finn’s shoulders, because they’re too smooth, too wet.

But Finn still hits that place inside of him, that place that turns Sean into bundle of nerves without thought or worries, drifting on a tender breeze.

When they leave the bathroom, Daniel is fast asleep, his whole body sunken into the mattress like stones. And Sean slides into bed next to him and Finn lies down alone, and it’s like nothing happened. Like the shower washed everything away.

It’s… unsteady. And uncertain. But it works. And it just might get them to Mexico.

 

*

 

Another morning, another motel room. But for the first time in a long time, Sean wakes up under Finn’s arm.

He took a chance last night, after he and Finn stumbled in off the porch with flushed faces and tingling lips. Daniel was splayed out in the center of his bed and, not wanting to move him, Sean crawled into the other bed, next to Finn.

Sean rolls over, his eye roaming for Daniel. Finds him sitting on his mattress with his Demon Blonde doll and a box of cereal.

"Hey," Daniel says, when he notices Sean. He points to an advertisement on the back of the box. "Did you know they made a Chock-O-Crisp _cereal_?"

"Uh… No, dude," Sean says, still lying there, still wrapped in Finn’s arms like so many blankets.

"Can we get some?!"

"Y-Yeah!"

There’s a shift that morning. A change in the air. Sean can feel it, all around him. Things are easier, more natural. The ground, holding firm beneath his feet.

Handfuls of cereal, half-way decent motel room coffee, and then they’re back on the road.

"You wanna come inside?" Finn asks, leaning on his door as the truck fills up with gas. The station is quiet in the midmorning sun, with only the occasional car speeding down the highway.

Daniel takes a breath. They’ve been working on this. He’s getting better at being around people, so long as he can hold Finn’s hand.

"Yeah."

Sean stays in the truck. Finishes filling it up. Hangs the pump back into place—or, tries too. He misjudges the distance between himself and the slot, and the gas pump nozzle clatters to the ground. Red-cheeked and hating his depth perception, Sean take a vindictive sort of pleasure in snatching up the nozzle and shoving it where it belongs.

Fucking _stay there_.

A car speeds down the highway. Sean drums his hands on his pockets, waiting. The desert is yellow and flat and wide; the sky, bleached almost white. It reminds him of-

" _Go, go, go_! Drive!"

"Fuckin’ _get in_!"

 _What_?!

 _Shit_!

Finn rushes past Sean, grabbing him, pushing him towards the truck. Daniel is already scrambling inside. Sean throws himself through the door—Finn’s in the driver’s seat, starting the engine, tossing something in Sean’s lap—and Sean’s heart is beating so fast, it’s going to burst.

"What the _shit_?!" he cries.

Where are they? Where’s Daniel?! Sean can’t see him, not without throwing Finn into his blind spot, and he needs—he needs them _both_ —

Sean twists around, sitting with his back to the passenger door so he can see Finn and Daniel at the same time. They’re both here. They’re here, they’re fine, and they’re both smiling, both _laughing_. Like this is all a joke. A great, terrible game where they win and Sean loses.

Sean grasps Daniel’s face between his hands.

"What happened? Did someone mess with you?"

"No!" Daniel beams, before dissolving into another fit of laughter. _Fuck_ , it’s forever since Sean’s seen him this happy, this excited and carefree. It’s like they’re back on that baseball field, playing heroes in the dirt. "It was _awesome_ , Sean!"

"You shoulda seen it!" adds Finn. "Fuckin’ flawless! I ain’t never seen a job that clean!"

Sean is hurtling, flying down a road laced with _DANGER_ signs. _STOP_. _CLIFF AHEAD_.

"What _job_?!"

"It was so cool!" says Daniel. "I made the distraction! The slushie machine—it just started _spraying_ everywhere, and the cashier didn’t know why!"

"The look on his _face_!" Finn laughs.

"And when he ran to check, the cash register popped open—"

Sean looks at the plastic bag in his lap. His eye can’t focus, can’t see what’s _right in front of him_ —

Fistfuls of cash. Tens, ones, fives and twenties. Maybe a couple hundred dollars, and certainly not more.

Sean recoils. He tosses the bag to the floor, kicking it away like something poisonous; bright red berries he told Daniel not to eat—

" _What the actual fuck?!_ " he cries.

"Now, sweetie, calm down-"

" _Seriously_?! After all the shit we went through with Merrill?"

"It weren’t like that!" Finn says, hands tight on the steering wheel. He’s looking more at Sean than the road, which isn’t doing anything for Sean’s frenzied nerves. "It just sorta happened! Ain’t like we planned it."

"It wasn’t a big deal, Sean," says Daniel, and the annoyance in his tone makes Sean slam his hand on the dashboard.

"Stop the car."

"Sean-"

"Stop the _fucking_ car!"

No one speaks until the engine is silent, parked on the edge of the road. The busted, shitty air conditioner goes still, and the heat of the Nevada desert slips in to replace it.

And Sean just sits there, back pressed to the passenger door, his shoes on the seat and knees drawn up to his chest. His rests his forehead there, breathing, shaking. Fuck. _Fucking goddamnit_.

"I _just_ got him back, Finn," Sean says. He looks up, his eye finding Daniel, pleading, begging him to understand. "I _just_ got you back."

Daniel is sulking, like Sean just came into his room and took all of his toys. "It wasn’t like Merrill’s! There wasn’t anyone around! The guy didn’t even _see_ anything!"

"It was chill, man," Finn insists. "In and out, no problem. Easy."

That’s exactly what Finn said before, about Merrill’s safe, about Big Joe’s truck, about their bullets, their _guns_. "What happens when he calls the cops?! And they see your face on the security camera-"

"I took _care_ of the security cameras!" Daniel groans. He tilts back his head, exasperated, like Sean used to do when Dad told him not to stay out too late.

"Dude, you can’t—you can’t keep doing this!" Sean pleads, arms tightening around his knees. "Stealing, using your powers this way. You’re gonna get busted."

How long until the cops track start connecting all these strange explosions? How long until Finn and Sean and Daniel are all cornered, hands in the air, guns in their faces, Daniel’s powers spinning out of control and Merrill’s house splintering all around them—

"You’re not _bulletproof_ , _enano_!"

Daniel head snaps in Sean’s direction. "I know that!"

"No! No, you _don’t_!" Sean cries. "You don’t remember, you didn’t _see_. Dad— _laying_ there—the fucking cops—"

Sean chokes. All that blood. Dad, his eyes wide open, shirt wet and stained with red. Daniel, unconscious, so tiny, so helpless, so easily lifted into Sean’s arms, just like the day Karen left. Small, quiet, one-year-old Daniel, who doesn’t understand why Dad is crying, reaching up for Sean, hands opening and closing like little starfish, needing big brother to tell him that everything is going to be okay.

Daniel doesn’t remember these things, but Sean does. Sean carries these scars that Daniel has no context for, wounds he never saw bleed, pain he cannot imagine.

"Hey…" Finn reaches across Daniel’s lap, and lays a hand over Sean’s boot. "It’s gonna be alright. We’re okay. We’re _together_. No cops chasin’ us. You gettin’ all spun up over nothin’, sweetie."

No. No, it’s not nothing. It’s everything. Sean’s entire existence. His whole fucking _life_. Everything is wrong, and this time, Finn’s hand cannot make it better.

And worse, Sean doesn’t want it to.

He turns in his seat, letting his feet fall to the floor. He faces the dashboard—Finn and Daniel fall into his blind spot.

"Let’s just go."

And soon, they’re rumbling down the road again, but Sean can’t see where they’re going. The fog rolls in. The way ahead, unclear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I did not think I'd be able to get an update to you guys this week, after the 17K Sean/Finn High School AU I posted on Tuesday... but here we are. I'm kinda proud of myself!
> 
> This chapter definitely isn't as fun and carefree as the previous one, but I still had a really good time writing these much-needed conversations. There are things these characters need to say to each other, things they need to deal with openly and honestly, before they can find that... finish line. They're going places that... kind of scare me, as a writer, but that's good, because it scares them, too. They'll have to be brave, if they want to make it. I'll have to brave. But you guys believe in us, right? <3


	8. stumbling

That night, there’s another motel room. Second in a row. They can fucking afford it, apparently. It’s _pay day_.

Daniel throws his backpack on the floor. He uses his old one, the one filled with toys; Sean emptied the one Daniel stole from Merrill and left it on the side of the road, like the empty husk of a hornet’s nest.

"Oh, I want this one—no, this one! It’s softer. _Way_ softer!" Daniel climbs atop his favorite bed and starts jumping. "You guys can have the lumpy one."

It’s been a really good day for Daniel. Probably the best he’s had in a while. He got to play _bandits_ with Finn in the morning; drank an entire red slushie with lunch. Sean even took him training in the afternoon.

" _Hero_ training," Sean specified, definitely not looking at Finn when he said it.

He and Daniel spent the next few hours climbing over rocks behind some rest stop, howling and throwing stones and looking for rabbits. Daniel laughed a lot more than Sean; Sean thought a lot more than Daniel.

"Sean?" Daniel asked, pressed to Sean’s side as they wandered towards the truck. "Are you… mad at me?"

Sean didn’t have to ask what he meant.

"No, _enano_. I’m not mad."

At you.

They found Finn sitting on the edge of the truck bed, smoking; back hunched; elbows on his knees. A book lay forgotten at his side, but he held the stick that Chris gave him and tapped it against the ground. He had that contemplative look again, like he could see things far beyond the horizon. Like he’d figured out the ending of a book before he’d finished it.

Flopping down on his much softer, less lumpy bed, Daniel gropes for the remote. Finn sits down beside him but instead of joining the picture, Sean takes a shower. He tries to let the water wash everything away, the way it does when he hides in here with Finn, but everything sticks. Daniel’s scowl. Dad’s wide, lifeless eyes. Finn’s laugh as they barrel away from the gas station, a bag of money in Sean’s lap. All of it has settled into his skin, like sweat after a long run, dirt that won’t scrub clean.

"I’m really tired," Daniel says, when Sean finally steps out of the bathroom. He lingered in the there so long, his hair is completely dry.

 _Really tired_ is Daniel’s way of asking for a painkiller. Sean opens the bottle and notices he’s running low on pills; he should probably start saving them, just in case.

But he’ll tell Daniel that tomorrow. Tonight, he’ll let the boy sleep without nightmares, without tears.

Finn shifts out of the bed as Daniel settles beneath the blankets. He’s been reading the entire time, even as Daniel watched cartoons, and when he stands, his eyes still don’t leave the page. Daniel can tell that something is off.

"Goodnight, Finn," he says, but his tone clearly means: _Look at me_.

Finn obliges. With a half-smile, he places a hand atop Daniel’s head. "Sleep tight, little man."

Sean is already stepping onto the porch. He stands there with both hands gripping the opposite arm, feeling sweaty even in the cool night air. The desert is as flat and empty as it’s always been, but it looks different at night, the sand turned white in the moonlight and dark stones dotting its surface like stars.

The sound of a sliding glass door. Finn’s familiar footsteps. Finn’s familiar _everything_. His scent. His body heat. Even the cadence of his breath.

"Daniel asleep?" Sean murmurs. Finn’s tone is equally calm.

"Out like a light."

A nod. Then Sean turns, bringing Finn into view.

"What the _fuck_ , dude?"

" _We needed the money!_ "

Their voices are still low, still little more than whispers. Sean stands there with his arms crossed, but Finn is the exact opposite, his hands extended and fingers splayed, like he’s waiting for Sean to pour something into his upturned palms.

"It was _right there_!" Finn says; urgent, desperate. "All we had to do was take it! You’d’a done the same thing!"

"No, dude." Sean takes a step back, hands tightening around his upper arms. He can feel his mouth curving into some horrible mixture of disappointment and disgust, and Finn’s brow creases in response.

"You tellin’ me you’d watch that register pop open an’—what? Polish your fuckin’ boy scout badge?!"

Heat rushes to Sean’s face. He remembers all the times he did exactly that, all those little moments when he left free food or free cash just lying there on the ground. The swear jar on his kitchen counter. The Chock-O-Crisp on an open dashboard. The camping gear beside Hank Stamper’s unconscious body. It was all right there, a bounty within his reach, but Sean let them go because something in Sean told him it was the right thing to do; something that sounds a lot like his dad. And suddenly Sean feels young and foolish, like a child waiting for presents to appear beneath his tree. But that’s how he is—how he _was_ , until he sat with Finn at the edge of that party.

"It’s not right, Finn. Using Daniel like this, using his _powers_ —"

"You think either one’a us can stop him from usin’ them?"

"No—but—" Sean looks down, rocking on his heels. "If he… If he _has_ to use them…"

He lifts his shoulders and lets them fall.

"Why can’t Superwolf be a _good guy_ , Finn?"

Finn makes a sound Sean can’t describe. Exasperated, maybe, but more… subtle. Almost sad. He looks away, out into the silver-white desert, hands planted on his hips.

"I guess," Finn says carefully, "we got diff’rent ideas of what it means to keep ‘im safe. You wanna keep runnin’ and hidin’, but that ain’t gonna get us far, Sean. Nothin’ keeps you safe like a pile’a cash."

Bile rises up in Sean’s throat. He remembers all that money, spilling out of Merrill’s safe. Finn’s hands, snatching them up; Finn’s lips curving into a wild, almost crazed grin. There was so much of it, more than any of them could carry, and yet it didn’t stop a bullet from slicing Daniel’s arm, nor the glass from piercing Sean’s eye.

"I want it, Sean," Finn says, drawing close. His hands flex, as if they long to settle on Sean’s hips—or shoulders—or _anything_ —but he grips the porch railing instead. "I want the beach house. The late nights an’… sand ‘tween our toes! Fuck…"

His voice is so tender, so soft and sweet that he reaches up to brush knuckles along Sean’s cheek, Sean can’t help but lean into the touch.

"You know I never let anythin’ happen to you, or that little guy. You’re my family, Sean."

Those words are gentle hands, slipping into the cracks of Sean’s chest and easing it open, exposing the heart beneath. He wants to give himself to this feeling, to let it envelope him and wash away all his fears, caked on his skin like so much dirt.

"Yeah…" he sighs. "Yeah, I know."

He lets Finn cup his cheek—lets Finn unite their lips in a sad, tentative kiss. When the kiss breaks, Finn gathers him up; he presses Sean’s head into the crook of his neck, and all at once Sean is tethered, anchored, bound again by the undeniable weight of Finn’s gravity. He surrenders to it, glad to be caught by such strong and caring hands.

"It’s gonna be alright," Finn whispers. Sean hums against him and shuts his eye, letting the words of reassurance take hold of him. "We thought it through. No cameras, no witnesses. No one chasin’ us… You got nothin’ to worry ‘bout, sweetie."

Sean’s eye opens.

Something… twinges in his chest. Where there should be kite strings and gentle breezes, there’s a tremor in the air, something not quite right.

Finn draws away. "You comin’ to bed?"

"N-Nah…" Sean says, and the feeling of _wrongness_ only grows. "I… need a smoke."

A sympathetic nod from Finn. "Yeah. Decompress. Things’ll look better in the mornin’."

"I know."

Finn pats his arm and goes inside. Sean watches him through the glass door; Finn stretches and kicks off his shoes before crawling into bed.

Sean leans on the porch railing. Shakes a cigarette out of its box and lights it, thinking.

Thinking.

Why is he so… uneasy? Spun up. He never feels this way after hearing Finn’s voice, feeling Finn’s touch. Those lips and those hands tell him that everything is going to be okay, but his gut…

His gut says something is wrong.

 _We thought it through. No cameras… Nothin’ to worry ‘bout_ …

Right. Daniel disabled the security cameras. No one saw their faces. No one can tie this crime to two runaway boys from Seattle. They’re fine.

But…

Didn’t Finn say…

 _It just sorta happened! Ain’t like we planned it_.

Finn made it sound like a spontaneous decision. An opportunity, seized. Like… finding a dollar on the ground. But… they disabled the security cameras… _Thought it through_ …

The _wrongness_ coils in Sean’s chest, like a dark tendril, like a poisonous snake.

Sean snuffs out his cigarette. He barely dragged on it at all.

He feels possessed again. Like when he dumped out Daniel’s backpack, searching for clues. He slides open the glass door and steps inside, no louder than a whisper, a breeze rolling across the desert. Daniel sleeps with an open mouth and splayed limbs; Finn sleeps on his side, looking almost childish with his knees bent and fingers curled.

Finn’s backpack lies at the foot of his bed, illuminated by a strip of moonlight. Sean opens it with slow, silent movements. The _wrongness_ twists inside of him.

Clothes. Cigarettes. Books. Weed. A photo crinkled with age, as precious and well kept as Sean’s photo of Esteban. Finn smiles at Sean from that photo, so young, so happy, no ring in his nose or tattoos on his face. All three of his brothers surround him, laugh with him, protect him. What could possibly happen to this carefree boy, with so many arms to catch his fall?

Sean sets the photo aside. Keeps digging. Finds snacks and condoms and letters and lube. Sean empties the entire bag, until at last, he reaches the bottom.

And there it is.

Three stacks of cash, just like Daniel’s, bound in white tape. But where Daniel grabbed tens and twenties, all of Finn’s bills are stamped with the number one-hundred.

While Sean lay there, bleeding, with Merrill probably dead and Big Joe on the prowl and Daniel getting further away by the second, Finn went for the money. Not Sean. Not Daniel. Not Hannah or Cassidy or Penny. Not anyone he ever called family. He chose the money, first and foremost.

Because of course he did.

Because he wants to be twelve years old again, with five-hundred dollars in his pocket. He wants to feel like he did then, like King of the Fucking World. Untouchable. Safe.

It’s never going to be enough. The money in Sean’s hands—it could get them Mexico ten times over. But Finn still needs more. Finn will always _want_ more, because he’s never going to be twelve again. He and Daniel could rob every gas station from here to Florida and Finn will never, _ever_ feel the way he did in that photo, with his brothers all around him.

Tethered. Anchored. _Safe_.

Sean trembles there on the floor, hurt and angry and betrayed—and _frightened_ , most of all.

Frightened because of what he has to do. What he always knew, deep down, he was capable of.

Sean stands. He stumbles into the bathroom, where he grips the side of the sink and presses his forehead to mirror, heaving. He can’t get enough air. The world is spinning. The _wrongness_ is tossing him about, shaking him like a house, unable to contain Daniel’s storm.

He can’t. He _can’t_.

He _won’t_.

Sean opens his eye. Stares hard into his own reflection, barely visible in the low light. A dark, shadowy version of himself stares back at him; his white eyepatch is the only bright spot in the entire portrait.

This is not who he wants to be.

Sean straightens. He returns to the bedroom and stands between the two beds. He should lie down. Things will… look better in the morning.

He stares at Daniel’s sleeping form. He looks just as he did in the back of Brody’s car, with Mushroom curled at his side.

 _What you and your brother have is the most important thing_ , Brody says.

 _We have to be good role models for him_ , says Dad, sitting on the edge of Sean’s mattress.

Brody squeezes Sean’s shoulder.  _You’ve got each other. And you_ have _to move forward_.

 _Just try to be there for him_ , Dad says.

Sean shudders for breath, both hands clamped tight over his mouth. He can’t. He can’t. _Please. I can’t_.

Finn sits over a campfire, staring into the flames. _You can't change the past, so you gotta focus on what's next. Memories are just lessons for the future_.

Sean stares at Daniel, so angry, so powerful, so destructive and wild and untamed and small, so very, very small. So oblivious to danger, so blissfully, recklessly unaware of his own limits.

Money won’t make him bulletproof. _Powers_ don’t make him bulletproof.

And in Sean’s haze of doubt, his dizziness and anguish and grief, he finds room for one truth, one thing as certain and unshakable as the word _brothers_ :

He has to protect Daniel.

Every night since reuniting with Daniel, Sean has been faced with same choice. He’s stood between two beds, or two tents, and decided who he would lie beside.

For the first time, he chooses neither.

His movements are quick and efficient. It’s Sean’s turn to be the calculated one, the one who gathers up the cash and supplies while the other two lie unconscious. He takes two of the three stacks from Finn’s bag and packs them into his own. Packs Daniel’s bag as well, and most of their food. Everything is quietly stashed in the truck. Sean feels nothing the entire time, his emotions hidden behind walls, behind walls, behind walls. Every step adds a new layer. Every breath, another brick.

The last thing he takes is Daniel. Scoops him off that narrow mattress and into his arms. Daniel doesn’t even groan, doesn’t even notice, so completely the medicine has ensnared him.

Sean turns—and pauses, sketching Finn in his mind just one last time. The shape of his mouth, lips slightly parted in sleep. The tattoo on his chin; the lines smoothed out beneath his eyes. How young he looks. How innocent. In this moment, he’s just a boy like Daniel, looking for his family, longing for a home.

He doesn’t deserve this. He did so much for Sean— _sacrificed_ so much for Sean. When the time came to follow Hannah or stay with the broken, one-eyed boy, Finn made the selfless choice—and now Sean needs to do the same.

He lays Daniel heavily across the passenger’s seat of Big Joe’s truck. Grips the steering wheel for the very first time.

And drives away.

 

*

 

Sean doesn’t get very far.

He can’t focus. Can’t see the road. His eye strains the way it did trying to find the bases of that abandoned baseball field; a headache radiates through his skull, strong enough to crack the bone.

But he has to keep going. Has to put distance between Finn and Daniel.

Between Finn and _Sean_.

The road is dark. Mostly empty. If he can just keep looking forward, pick a spot on the horizon and just drive, maybe he can—

_FUCK!_

A car passes on Sean’s left side, blaring its horn, and Sean jumps because he didn’t see it. He can’t see anything on that side, not even another car tailgating his ass. It pulls out in front of Sean and speeds away, and his depth perception reels so hard from the conflicting sensation of barreling forward and getting left behind that Sean’s whole head _spins_.

The truck swerves off the road, into the desert. Sean _slams_ the brakes—Daniel jerks beside him.

"Huh? W-What?"

Fuck. Fuck, _shit_.

Sean lurches, _stumbles_ out of the truck and throws himself into the silver-white sand. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —!

He shouldn’t have done this.

Had no choice.

Just like Seattle—

Had to keep Daniel safe!

Just like _Karen_ —

_Nothing like Karen!_

Sean’s fingers dig hard into the sand, crushing, curling, hating, _mourning_. He’s a kite with clipped strings. A ship with no anchor. Tossed about in a cruel and uncaring storm. He wants Finn—has _no right_ to want Finn—but he can’t take this back, can’t make this right, has to keep going _forward_.

His entire body wracks with dry heaves. Maybe he cries—no, he has nothing left to cry. He sits on his knees and tilts his head towards the sky, mouth twisted in a soundless wail.

"S-Sean…?"

Daniel’s fingertips tremble against Sean’s back, before pulling away sharply, like a child reaching for a dog and recoiling at a flash of teeth.

"Sean! What’s wrong? Where’s Finn?!"

 _I’m sorry, enano. I’m so sorry_.

"Sean!"

Those tiny hands shake him, but all Sean can see is the sky, littered with stars. A moon half dark with shadows.

" _Where’s Finn?_ "

Gone. Gone. Because for all his kind words and sweet smiles and gentle hands, Finn was never safe. We had to leave him behind, _enano_ , don’t you see? Your safety is all that matters. It matters more than happiness, more than pizza parties and showers and soft beds and tender lips—

" _ANSWER ME!_ "

The words that leave Sean are choked, tortured. Like they’re last sound he’ll ever have the strength to make.

"We… We couldn’t… s-stay…"

The silence that follows—the wide, gaping, resounding silence that follows brings Sean crashing down to earth. His head, his eye roll from starry sky to desert sand, and find Daniel there, shocked and horrified and _livid_.

"You… You made us leave?" he says, voice trembling.

"I’m sorry, _enano_ -"

"NO!" Daniel’s shout rips through the air, threatening to toss Sean backward. Sand whips up around him, scratches at his face.

"YOU SAID WE WERE BROTHERS! YOU _PROMISED_!"

"I know- listen-"

" _I **HATE** YOU, SEAN!_"

The sheer force of his words really do repel Sean this time. He flies backward, hitting the sand hard, and he doesn’t try to sit up, doesn’t struggle, because no one hates Sean as deeply and as bitterly as he hates himself.

Somewhere far to Sean’s right, the truck begins to shake. Sean’s ears fill with the hard, unpleasant sound of metal scraping against metal.

Daniel screams. Daniel _roars_.

And the last thing Sean sees is the truck exploding against a star-filled sky.

 

*

 

A day later.

Maybe two.

Or a week.

Does it fucking _matter_?

Sean walks down the highway, the horizon blurred with transparent waves of heat. He’s still finding pieces of the truck in his path. A door handle. The head of the Demon Blonde. His own backpack, nearly intact, scooped up and slung across his shoulders.

A stick.

Just a stick.

Except, no—it’s not a stick. It’s the ancient sword of Quick Knife’s clan, passed down from his grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather. Sean picks it up. Carries it in one hand, trailing it in the ground behind him.

Just like a rōnin in some crappy anime.

Daniel is gone. Why would he stay? Sean isn’t worth staying with. Can’t do anything right. Can’t protect anyone.

Doesn’t _deserve_ anyone.

And yet, someone walks beside him.

 _This is it_ , Hank Stamper says. He carries a hunter’s rifle. _You’re toast. End of the road_.

Sean passed the end of the road a long time ago. He keeps walking anyway.

 _We got a lot of room in jail for cop murderers like you_. Sean can hear the wicked curve of Hank Stamper’s lip. _You’re alone now. Alone_.

Maybe this is what Sean always wanted. Why he was always running. Maybe he was never running _towards_ anything, but just trying to leave everyone else behind.

Hank Stamper slows his pace. Falls into step behind Sean, like his shadow, nearly invisible in the high, blazing sun.

Slowly, gradually, other figures draw close to Sean. Animals, familiar and welcome.

A brown bear lumbers alongside him. It has a low chuckle and a curious, quivering nose. It sniffs the air, hunting for a new story the way other bears hunt for food.

 _Big difference between alone and lonely_ , he says, before his path splits from Sean’s, and he ambles away into the desert.

A bird circles over Sean’s head. She lands on his shoulder and talks into his ear.

 _You hung up on me, Sean!_ she says. _How could you cut me off like that?_

I’m sorry. I… I don’t know… how to stop running…

_You said we’d see each other again. Best Freaking Fighters Forever! You promised._

I know. I fucking _tried_ …

The bird takes off, but she doesn’t fly away. She calls to Sean from the sky, a loving voice from afar.

A pair of wolves. Ancient, greying. They pant in the desert heat, but they trot to keep up with Sean, helpful, hopeful. He should slow down, he should stop and stay with them. His feet won’t listen. He can’t stop moving. More hunters come with still more rifles, and the old grey wolves can go no further.

A stay cat winds between Sean’s feet, playful. Beautiful. She sings songs about heartache and longing—songs Sean has heard before, drinking beers around a campfire. A group of hounds soon join her, yipping, jumping. They would welcome a young wolf into their pack but Sean keeps moving, keeps going, and eventually they disappear into the sand.

Sean collapses. Falls face-first onto the roiling tarmac. It stings his bare skin. He tries to get up—falters. Falls.

This is it. This is where he dies.

This is how he finally stops running.

Footsteps. Something new draws close to Sean, but stops short. He lifts his head, one eye blinking against the light.

A she-wolf sits in the middle of the road, sandy-colored and blue eyed.

 _She doesn’t_ look _like your mom_ , a kid says, on another blacktop very far away.

Sean finds the strength to sit on his knees. He’s drenched in sweat; he can feel it rolling down his face, dripping from the ends of his hair. The she-wolf offers no words. No advice. No assistance. She just watches him from the distance.

And Sean is ten-years-old, and the air conditioner in his house is busted. He’s sitting on the floor of the living room, sweating, while Dad works in the garage and the babysitter plays with Daniel.

The phone rings. It’s not Sean’s job to answer it. It rings and rings, but Dad’s going to pick it up soon, or the babysitter will.

But it keeps ringing, and no one comes. Sean groans and throws down his toys, and grabs the phone.

"Diaz residence," he grumbles.

The other end is silent.

"Sean Diaz speaking," he says, louder.

Nothing. Just silence. And yet… somehow familiar.

Sean’s heart twinges. The anger inside of him sputters, like too little water thrown on too many flames. But he can’t deny how much he wants this, how fiercely he misses her.

"…Mom?"

A choked sob on the other end—then the dial tone.

Sean is ten-years-old, but he’s also sixteen, sitting and sweating in the middle of the road. The she-wolf stares, ever silent, unblinking, unmoved.

" _This is all your fault!_ " Sean shouts suddenly, and the flames that burst through him are hotter than any desert, hotter than the asphalt beneath his knees.

“How could you _fucking_ do this to us?!" he cries, and the she-wolf doesn’t answer. "How could you do that to Dad? And Daniel? And  _me_?"

He’s crying now. Bitter tears slip down a single cheek. He thought he had nothing left to cry, but this anger is a wellspring, a wound that will never not bleed.

"Do you know how much you hurt us?! Do you even _care_?!"

If she does or if she doesn’t, the she-wolf won’t say. Sean shakes his head, and his words choke.

"Why couldn’t you just _stay_?!"

If she’d stayed, he would have a father. Grandparents. A treehouse in his backyard. A bed to sleep in every night. Daniel would be safe and happy and whole, and Sean would have two eyes. He’d be able to sketch. He’d be able to _see_. But he has nothing, nothing, and all because Karen needed to run. Because she needed to _leave_.

It all comes back to her. Sean has been running on a track this whole time, a circle that leads inevitably to Karen.

She started this.

She will finish this.

Sean forces himself to stand. The she-wolf stands, too. She still doesn’t speak, but she turns, leading Sean down the road. Guiding him.

Without another word, Sean follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started outlining this story--mapping out the journey, if you will--I had a destination in mind, a very specific image of where I wanted them to go. That image is still intact. The finish line has never wavered. The point of outlining, though, is to figure out how to get there.
> 
> I knew the stops I wanted these characters to make along the way. The people I wanted them to heal. Chris. Daniel. Finn. And Sean--Sean most of all. I may have mentioned before that this whole fic is basically my giant headcanon for how Episodes 4 & 5 of LiS2 should end; and how Sean should be healed of his trauma, and find catharsis in his grief.
> 
> But again... How to get him there?
> 
> Sometimes when I write, I ask myself, "What the worst thing that could happen to this character?" I don't always make that thing happen, but it's good to know where the limit is.
> 
> For this story, I initially wrote: "Finn leaves Sean." And that seemed alright. It would force Sean to deal with feelings he's shoved deep down, but that answer didn't feel right. It didn't feel... earned.
> 
> So I crossed out "Finn leaves Sean"... and I wrote: "Sean leaves Finn."
> 
> And there it was. I could see it. The whole journey. How to get him where he needed to go. That's not to say I wrote those words with confidence or a malicious grin. No. I started shaking. I hated it. It frightened me, and I didn't know if Sean would be brave enough to walk this path... or if I'd be brave enough to help him through it.
> 
> I want to try, though. I want to reach that finish line. The time has come, let us be brave. Let us be brave.


	9. standing up

"Here, little wolf. Drink this."

Karen brought the medicine to Sean’s lips. He recognized the scent of it—the same gooey, cherry-flavored stuff she always gave him when he was sick, a sticky syrup that would cling to his tongue even after he drank water. Sean whined in protest, turning his head away, but after several long minutes of coaxing, he eventually drank it.

Karen smiled then, and smoothed a hand across Sean’s sweaty brow. The other stroked her own stomach, round and full with Sean’s baby brother, whose name he did not yet know.

Sean twisted free of his blankets, wanting to feel the baby. He kicked sometimes, when Karen stroked her belly like that. Karen seemed to know exactly what he was after; she caught Sean’s hand and pressed it just below her navel.

"Why won’t he kick?"

"He’s asleep. And you should be, too. Close your eyes, little wolf."

Sean closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep. And when he felt Karen shift, preparing to stand, his eyes opened once again.

"Mom?"

Karen stopped.

"Can I… sleep with you and Dad?"

There was a brief pause, and Sean knew the answer before Karen spoke. "No, Sean."

Shame flooded through him, intensifying the fever inside his veins. He already regretted the question—knew, deep down, he was too old for such things—but the thought of staying here, beneath these damp, humid sheets, while Mom and Dad and the baby curled up without him filled Sean with so much grief, he couldn’t stand it.

Hot, humiliating tears welled in his eyes. "Please?"

"There’s not enough room. My tummy’s too big."

And Sean cried, hating himself for it but hating his bed even more. Something, some horrible mixture of sickness and dread told Sean that this was it, his last chance to lie down between Mom and Dad. After this—after this, the baby would come and Sean would have to be Big Brother. Adulthood would claim him and he’d never again be looked after, cradled or cared for.

Karen rubbed his back, and eventually Sean’s eyes closed again. He felt Karen shift, heard her open the door and shut it again, sealing Sean in darkness.

For a few moments he lay there, chest shuddering, bones aching. He kept his eyes closed, but sleep would not take him. He couldn’t sink into the mattress.

"He asleep?"

Sean sat up, dizzy. A strip of light shone through the crack of his bedroom door.

"Yeah," came Mom’s muffled voice. "Finally."

"Poor little guy."

Sean was out of bed in an instant. _Dad_. Dad was awake! Dad wouldn’t say no. Dad would give Mom that _look_ she couldn’t deny, the look Sean tried to imitate sometimes but would just make Mom laugh-

"He wanted to sleep in our bed."

Sean stopped just short of the door.

"Isn’t he getting too old for stuff like that?" Mom continued.

"Probably," Dad replied. "But that’s normal isn’t it? With a little brother on the way? He feels overlooked, rejected… Wants to be the baby again."

A humorless laugh from Mom. "Like he wasn’t needy enough already."

Sean opened his door just enough see the living room. Esteban and Karen were on the couch, and even from behind Sean recognized the way they were sitting; Mom, sideways, legs draped over Dad’s lap and head on his shoulder.

Dad whispered something. Pressed a kiss to the top of Karen’s head. There was a pause, then a strange sound—and Sean realized Mom was crying.

"Hey, hey _, loba_ …" Dad said, squeezing Mom’s shoulder. "What’s got you all spun up, huh?"

"I… I can’t do this…"

"Of course you can."

"I can _barely_ keep up with one! When there’s two…"

"You don’t have to do it alone," Dad said. Mom lifted her head and wiped a hand across her face.

"Feels like it, sometimes," she murmured. Those words hung between them for a moment, softly spoken but ominously sincere, but then Karen leaned forward, bumping her forehead against Esteban. " _Papito_ is a pushover."

Sean could only see the back of Dad’s head, but he must have been smiling because his laugh rumbled into the air. "He’s just so cute!"

"He’s spoiled," Mom said, her smile just visible, sitting sideways on the couch. She toyed with the hairs on the back of Esteban’s neck. "You going to spoil this guy, too?"

"I can’t help it."

"I know. That’s what I like about you. You’re selfless. Not like me."

"You’re too hard on yourself, _loba. Te necesito **…**_ "

Though Karen’s lips were still smiling, her eyes were sad as she said, "I hope this baby is just like you."

It was those words that made Sean close the door and crawl back into bed, because even though Karen didn’t say it, her meaning was clear. She wanted her new son to be like Dad—because Sean was just like her.

 

*

 

Arizona. Somewhere near Tuscon. Sean has never been closer to Mexico, and yet it has never mattered less.

He’s sunburned. Dry skin peeling at his knuckles. His boots scrape against a sidewalk—an actual sidewalk, not highway, not crackled, dry desert—as a truck slows to a roll beside him.

"Hey!" barks the driver, invisible on Sean’s left side. "Ha-bla _Inglés_?"

Fuck off.

The driver tries again. "Need work? _Labor_?"

 _Fuck. Off_.

A racial slur, then the truck speeds away. Dust swirls into Sean’s path, clouding his vision and filling his mouth with grit, but he keeps walking, silent, resolute.

He walks by a park. Green grass and a chainlink fence that only reaches as high as Sean’s waist. The sound of creaking swings and carefree laughter makes Sean ache all over. Suddenly, his limbs feel ten times heavier, and all he wants is to lie on that soft grass and stop, forever.

But Karen’s apartment is close. Of course he memorized the address—Daniel read it out loud enough fucking times. Sean only needs to make it that far. Then he can fall down and become dirt.

The apartment building is beige and unimpressive. The walkways are made of concrete and the doors are chipped and peeling. Sean walks by a door with bowls of dried-up cat food left out on the welcome mat, and his nose wrinkles. This is what Karen gave him up for. This was her big dream. Her happy fucking ever after.

And there it is. The right number, printed so carefully in Karen’s letter to Claire, now faded above an apartment door. Sean lifts his cracked, dry knuckles.

And knocks.

And waits.

No answer. No sound of movement behind the door. Sean knocks again, louder this time, more insistent. When still no reply comes, he bangs his whole fist on the door. Answer me, mother _fucker_!

"Hey!"

Down the hall, an old white lady throws open the door crowded with cat food. She examines Sean with squinting, grey eyes and makes a wet chewing sound with her mouth.

"Who you lookin’ for?" she demands.

Sean doesn’t reply. For some reason, he can’t admit—not even to a stranger—that he’s searching for Karen.

"The lady? The guy?"

"The lady, I guess," Sean says, trying not think of what the latter means. Trying not to imagine a stepfather or half-siblings younger than Daniel…

"You see ‘em, you tell ‘em to keep it down." That’s all the instruction Sean gets before the door slams and the bowls rattle.

 _If_ you see them? Fuck. Does Karen not live here anymore? Does she stay with her—her _boyfriend_?

The urge to lie down overtakes him again. Sean could lay here, on the porch, and wait for Karen to come back. Would she even notice? Or would she just step over his corpse and move on with her life?

For the first time in a long time, Sean turns around, and walks back the way he came. He wanders towards the park, drawn by the laughter and the bittersweet sting of old memories. There’s free water and bathrooms there, anyway. If he’s quick, the soccer moms will give him the stink eye, but not too much trouble.

He walks along that chainlink fence, unable to find the opening. On the other side—the side with green grass and laughter—a kid crashes into the fence, then sprints away as two more give chase. They tackle the first kid, half-laughing, half-shrieking _. Tag. You’re it_.

"But Power Bear is the _strongest_ one!"

Sean stops.

"He says, ‘No one can defeat justice!’ and he raises his fist, like this!"

Sean looks across the grass, out to the park beyond the chainlink fence. Out to the swings. To the slide. To the jungle gym, crawling with kids. There’s a bench under a tree, and Daniel stands on top of it, striking a heroic pose.

He looks different. Shorter hair. Clean clothes. New shoes. He doesn’t notice Sean at all; he’s too busy talking to a woman, who sits sideways on that bench the same way she sat on the living room couch, almost ten years ago.

And Sean is just… standing there, separated by a chainlink fence, but he’s also eight-years-old again, and Dad is crying. Dad—Sean’s strong, immovable, unshakable Dad—is sitting there with a hand pressed over his eyes, mouth contorted as a sob rattles through him. Daniel doesn’t understand. Daniel reaches for Dad but Dad doesn’t pick him up, doesn’t hold him and sway him like the boughs of an old, solid oak.

So Daniel—small, one-year-old Daniel—turns to Sean instead, hands opening in a way that says, _Pick me up,_ but Sean doesn’t. Sean is thinking about what Mom—what _Karen_ said about how he was needy, selfish and spoiled. She must have hated him, and when she saw that Daniel was exactly the same, she probably hated him, too.

And Sean is eight-years-old, consumed by flames, hating Karen right back. He promises to hate her forever, and when he does, he can feel a wall rise up inside of him, sealing in his anger behind bricks of apathy and spite. Those walls become a furnace, always burning inside his chest.

It’s not right. It’s not _fair_.

How can Karen just _be_ here— _right here_ , sitting on a bench with Daniel? How can Daniel look so happy, so glad to be with her, after everything she’s done? Everything she _didn’t_ do. She never took him to the park. Never walked him to school. Never helped him with his homework or cooked his favorite meals or gave him the last Chock-O-Crisp.

And Sean is so angry, so sad, so profoundly miserable that maybe he doesn’t really exist anymore. Maybe he died a long time ago, when that bullet ripped through Dad. Maybe Sean’s body is still laying there, next to him, and now Sean is just a name no one wants to remember, just a ghost no one can see.

Daniel laughs again. Karen says something that Sean cannot hear. He can’t even really see her face, but he can see the movement of her mouth. And it’s that detail, the sight of her mouth moving with no sound coming out—a phone call with no voice on the other end—that brings Sean back into his own body. He’s not just a ghost. He has arms and legs and nails and teeth, and he’s going to jump this fence and run to Karen and rip out her _goddamned throat_ —

And then

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _gravity_.

Footsteps, as familiar and unmistakable as Sean’s own heartbeat. Footsteps that walked beside him in between massive redwoods, footsteps that followed him across California and Nevada, through alleyways and abandoned baseball fields. Footsteps that could only belong to Finn.

Like Daniel, he hasn’t noticed Sean at all, too preoccupied by a box of cigarettes in his hands. He’s walking towards Sean, along the chainlink fence; a grocery bag dangles from the crook of his elbow, and through the translucent white plastic, Sean can see the Chock-O-Crisp logo.

Smokes and snacks.

Sean doesn’t have time to feel anything before Finn notices him, and then Sean feels _everything_. Finn doesn’t stop dead so much as he stumbles backward, as if frightened by what he sees. He’s looking at a ghost—no, worse than that. An actual walking corpse, the remains of someone once dear and familiar, now hollow and strange.

Sorrow, longing, anger, regret—all of these things burst through Sean like wires shot through with sparks, but anguish— _anguish_ is what he feels most of all. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. His last memory of Finn was supposed to be that sketch, the image of Finn innocent and dreaming, before Sean broke his heart.

So, Sean turns.

And Sean runs.

His feet slam hard on the sidewalk. His backpack slaps against him. It feels just like when he ran to school, with a playground at his side and Karen at his back.

 _Look how fast I am, Mom_.

But then, something new happens.

Something _catches_ him.

"Sean, wait-"

"No-"

Finn holds tight to Sean’s backpack, and Sean twists, desperate and childish, like Daniel when Sean caught him sneaking into his room.

" _No!_ " he says again, hating himself, hating _all of this_ , unable to face it, needing to run, before he’s pulled back in, caught by wonderful, inescapable weight of Finn’s arms.

"Please-"

" _Don’t!_ "

The straps of his backpack snap, and suddenly Sean is free, untethered, weightless. He stumbles forward, nearly tripping, but recovers quickly. He bolts down the street and keeps running; he never intends to stop.

No one can catch the Silver Runner.

 

*

 

A bus stop. Sean doesn’t know how far the five dollars in his wallet will take him, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll get to the border. To Mexico. Sand and… coconuts.

Whatever.

People shuffle around Sean. He can’t see any of them, not with his hood pulled up and an eyepatch over his left side. No one bothers him. He’s so dirty and ragged that they’re probably avoiding him; like that homeless man at the rest stop, who gave Sean his first clue about Daniel.

Someone sits down beside him. Sean doesn’t look. Doesn’t speak. Just sits there with his back hunched and forearms on his knees.

"Hello, little wolf."

" _Shut the fuck up!_ "

Sean falls forward, head between his hands. How _dare_ she call him that. Like she never left. Like nothing’s changed.

Karen doesn’t reply. Sean snarls, but she can’t see it. He can’t see her, either, his head still bowed as he says, "How did you _fucking_ find me?"

"That boy, Finn—said you ran when you saw him. So, I asked myself where I would go, if I wanted to avoid my ex."

" _Fuck you_!" Sean says, punching his own leg. What the _fuck_ does she know? If she knew Finn, if she knew _anything_ at all, she’d know that he and Finn were never boyfriends, and that “ex” doesn’t even begin to describe he and Finn are, what he and Finn _had_ , what he and Finn will never be again.

He hates that Karen knows Finn’s name. Hates that she’s seen his face, heard his voice. But what Sean hates most of all is that Karen now knows things about Sean, things he’s only just started to discover about himself. She doesn’t deserve to know him, doesn’t deserve to _define_ him, especially not when Sean doesn’t know how to define himself.

"I fucking hate you," he says, wishing his words were a knife, and he could cut Karen as deeply as she cut him.

"I know. And that’s okay."

No, it’s not. It’s not okay. She was his mom and he loved her so how can this hatred, this burning, consuming hatred _ever_ be okay?

"You can hate me all you want," Karen says. "But please don’t hate yourself."

"I don’t!" Sean says, but he can taste the falseness of his own words. He just doesn’t want Karen to think that he has enough room inside of him to hate anyone but her. "I’m a fucking mess, but I was still a better parent than you. I gave up _everything_ for Daniel. My home, my friends. _Finn_. Everything I did, I did to keep him safe."

He faced down guns for Daniel. Cougars. Cops. Hank Stamper. Big Joe. He took a fist to the eye for Daniel, then shards of glass soon after. And when he lost Daniel—when he woke up disoriented and half-blind, Sean did everything he could to track Daniel down. He thought of nothing else; he worried and cried and bled for Daniel, and what did Karen do? Where was she? Living her own life. Traveling the world.

"You don’t deserve to be his mom."

Karen inhales slowly beside him. Sean still hasn’t looked up. He doesn’t want to see Karen’s face. Doesn’t want her to see his. Doesn’t want her to know how much he’s changed, how much he hurts without her.

"I know," Karen says at last. Her voice is small, shaking. "But I have to try."

Sean makes a sound of frustration. Fingers clutch at the fabric of his hood, trying to tear out the hair beneath.

"This isn’t about me."

 _Bullshit_. Everything is about her. In the last nine years, there hasn’t been a single day not darkened by the shadow she left behind.

"What do you _want_ Sean?"

Want? He hasn’t _wanted_ anything in a long time. He’s needed shelter. Needed food and water. Safety. Daniel. Warmth. Comfort. But want— _want_ is a luxury. Want is pizzas and ice cream and new toys. Things Sean has learned to live without.

But if he could _want_ something—

anything—

What would it be? What’s the goal? The finish line?

It’s not Mexico. It’s not even Finn or Daniel. It’s not Lyla or Seattle or Cassidy or redwoods or soft beds or steady arms. It’s not _Karen_. It’s…

It’s…

Sean.

He’s always been looking for Sean.

That’s why he made Daniel run, again and again, despite all those places—all those people—that could have become his home. Seattle. Beaver Creek. California. Sean couldn’t figure out where his puzzle piece fit—or even what his puzzle piece looked like.

He wants to wake up and know who he is. To open his eye in the morning without struggle, without confusion. He wants to recognize his own reflection. He wants to be… enough. More than enough. He wants to be so much himself, that he spills out into world like sunshine.

He wants to be part of the picture.

That’s how he feels when Finn holds him. When Daniel smiles at him. When he slid into home base of that abandoned baseball field and the Spirit Squad cheered his name.

"I want… to stop running," Sean says. His words are strained. "I want to go _home_."

"Why can’t you?" Karen asks.

"Because… Daniel hates me. And Finn…" _Fuck_. "Finn won’t ever forgive me."

"Maybe not. But I’ve learned the hard way that you can’t let that stop you from… trying."

Sean remembers that phone call. The silence on the other end. The choked sob. The dial tone. The cruel words he would have thrown at her if she’d spoken—but then the tears, the relief that would have followed. Maybe not forgiveness, maybe not _acceptance_ or trust or love, but healing. Catharsis. The poison drawn out. The wound, stitched shut.

"You have a choice now, Sean. You can have fear and freedom… or you can have family."

Sean raises his head. He stares at the empty street. His shoulders are trembling—though more from grief than anger.

"You don’t fucking _deserve_ a family," he says.

"I know. But you do. " Karen’s hand falls between his shoulders. "You always did."

The sound Sean makes is choked, strangled. A sob wrenches out of him, and the tears come swiftly after, like a thunderclap met with rain. Karen’s hand on his back is like Sean’s hand on a windowpane, feeling a storm just beyond the glass.

"I’m so sorry… Oh, Sean, I’m _so_ sorry…"

And Sean wants to tell her that he doesn’t care. She hurt him too much, waited too long. It doesn’t matter how sorry she is, because he’ll _always_ hate her. He _promised_ to hate her.

But it’s been so long since he made that promise. Nearly ten years. A whole decade, he’s carried this hatred, piled up on his back like so many stones.

His anger—it’s not a fire. It’s a wall. It’s bricks upon bricks, heavy and awful, terrible and spiteful. It turns his heart into a furnace, prevents the fire from running its course and fading away.

And Sean doesn’t _want it_ any more.

He turns his head. Looks at Karen. She’s older now, so much older, her face lined with sorrow and regret. Sean supposes he must look the same.

"I fucked up so bad, Mom…"

Karen cups his cheek. Her thumb falls below his eyepatch.

"Oh, my little wolf…"

"Dad’s dead because of me," he whispers, sounding so very, very small.

"No, Sean…" Karen is crying now, too, and she looks so much, _so much_ like Claire, when the police came to take her grandsons away. "No… _Shhh_ …"

"And Daniel… I shouldn’t have made him _run_ …"

" _Shhh_ …"

Karen wraps him up, and Sean lets her. He’s too big now to be lifted and swayed, but she cradles him all the same. And the anger, the hatred—the fire, the stones—all crumble into ashes and dust, brushed away and scattered to the wind. He’s lighter now, so much lighter. A great burden, finally shed.

And Sean thinks... Maybe  _this_ is what you’re supposed to leave behind. Not the people, not the memories, but the things that weigh you down, the things that prevent you from moving on.

 

*

 

Karen’s apartment is on the second floor. Sean waits at the bottom of the stairs.

This feels… really fucking weird. Needing Karen to intervene, like he and Daniel are having an argument over the remote. It’s a tense, uncomfortable feeling, much like when Sean was waiting for Chris at that park in Nevada—but it’s better than running. Better than not trying at all.

Daniel probably still hates him. Maybe he always will. Or maybe… Maybe it’ll be the phone call that never happened, the one Karen ended too early. Maybe it’s not too late.

Sean can hear a door open in the hallway upstairs. He hopes it’s not the cat lady. The stairs begin to rumble as someone descends; Sean stands and turns around.

It’s Finn, once again fiddling with a cigarette box. He’s able to open it this time, however, and when he reaches the bottom step, he sits exactly where Sean was, only a moment ago. The step is probably still warm.

Finn lights his cigarette without a word, both hands cupping around his lighter. He takes a drag and lets it out, but still doesn’t speak.

So Sean does. "Hey."

"Hey," Finn echoes. A pause. Another drag. Then, "Good to see you, man."

Sean’s heartbeat stutters. "Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah. Daniel, y’know… He didn’t say it, but he was worried." Finn tilts his head, as if motioning to Karen’s apartment. "Your momma’s talkin’ to ‘im now. He’ll prob’bly wanna see you in a minute."

And that’s it. After that, there’s silence and smoke. And Sean, standing there, a hand jangling at his side. He wants to…

He doesn’t know what he wants to do.

But he wishes Finn was holding him.

"Thanks, man," he says lamely. "For, uh… You know. Making sure he got here… safe."

Finn snorts. " _Safe_. Right. With me."

A sharp pain in Sean’s chest. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, sure." Finn shrugs, and it feels like the period on the end of a sentence, one meant to end the conversation. But Sean isn’t ready to not hear his voice.

"How’d you… find him, anyway?"

"Shit, he found _me_ ," Finn almost laughs. "Kicked down my goddamn door. I was pretty trashed, y’know? Sittin’ in that motel… And then the door just— _burst_ off its hinges. I thought the world was comin’ to an end."

Sean nods, smiling, somehow, even though it isn’t funny, it’s actually the least funny thing in the entire fucking world. "Yeah… That sounds about right."

Finn isn’t looking at Sean. He stares off to the side, not quite contemplative but… also not _here_ , either. He’s not fully in this moment. Like trying to read a book and have a conversation at the same time.

"So… What’s your plan?" Sean asks. For some reason, that draws Finn’s full attention.

"My _plan_?" He sounds slightly insulted, and Sean realizes that Finn associates that word with empty registers and stolen cars.

"No, I mean…" Sean shrugs. "What will you do, now that… I’m…"

" _Fuck_ , you think I’m leavin’ that little guy?" If Finn wasn’t insulted a moment ago, he certainly is now. "That ain’t what we agreed, Sean. _Brothers_ , remember? I’m stayin’ with ‘im, even if we… aren’t… y’know."

Finn falters. A lump rises in Sean’s throat.

"Together?" he offers.

"Yeah." Finn drags from his cigarette. It shakes between his fingers.

"Finn, listen-"

"No." That single word kills everything in Sean’s throat. "We don’t have to… get into it. We just gotta get along. For Daniel."

No. No, that’s not… That’s not _good enough_.

"Finn, this isn’t going to just… go away. We need to _talk_ about it."

Finn sets his jaw. Ringed fingers curl into fists. "No, we don’t."

"Well, _I_ do! I need you to understand-"

" _Fuck_ , Sean, you think I don’t _know_?!"

Finn jumps to his feet. Sean almost staggers back, frightened by Finn’s intensity, but somehow he manages to stay in place.

He’s done running.

"I get _why_ you did it!" Finn cries. " _Fuckin’ A._ You don’t… You don’t gotta tell me we was just playin’ pretend."

Sean’s heart drops out of him. "What, like… playing house?"

Finn laughs. Sean’s never heard him make such a joyless sound. "Yeah. Sure. Us, playin’ house in motels. Or _you_ , playin’ bandits in the woods. Me, playin’ heroes in the dirt."

He drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his shoe, trying and failing to find a smile. "It was fun while it lasted, but we both know you’re never gonna be an outlaw. An’ Quick Knife… Quick Knife ain’t a _good guy,_ Sean."

 _Good guy_. Finn says those words like a fantasy, a dream. A goal beyond his reach. A finish line he’ll never see.

Finn, whose childhood games had nothing to do with heroes and everything to do with villains. Finn, who played Cops And Robbers just like any other little boy, but with much higher stakes and devastating consequences.

And Sean remembers how Finn beamed, when he saw that drawing of Quick Knife, and how seriously Finn took their games with Chris and Daniel. It didn’t occur to Sean then, but he realizes now… That was the first time Finn ever got to see himself as a hero.

"You could… You _could be_ a good guy… if you wanted," Sean says. His voice sounds odd—like he’s begging Finn to believe him.

But Finn shakes his head. "No, Sean. I don’t gotta finish this story to figure out who done it. It was obvious from the beginnin’ that Quick Knife took your eye."

Sean exhales. He feels as if he’s been punched.

"Finn-"

"You were in that house ‘cause’a me. ‘Cause I’m just like my dad." Finn’s eyes are shining, the circles around his lids redder and darker than usual. "Talkin’ people inta shit they don’t wanna do. Makin’ it sound like a good idea. Like they ain’t gotta choice."

" _Finn_."

Sean steps close enough to feel Finn’s body heat. He’s taller than Sean, standing on that bottom step; Sean’s hands reach up, curling behind Finn’s head and crushing their foreheads together.

" _We don’t have to be like them_."

Sean doesn’t have to be like Karen, always running, always hiding. Finn doesn’t have to be his father, never selfless, never satisfied. Sean’s seen it. He’s seen what they can be together.

Heroes.

 _Home_.

"I _chose_ to be in that house, Finn. _I_ made that choice. Like you did, when you stayed with me."

Like Charles, choosing to be sober. Karen, choosing to face her guilt.

"People can change. They can get better, if they choose to."

Finn is gripping Sean by the wrists, eyes closed, hanging on so tight that Sean, for once, feels like the anchor.

"I… I can try, Sean," Finn says, trembling, scarcely believing. Sean smiles— _actually_ smiles. Not a half-grin or some sad imitation of joy, but the sort of smile he hasn’t allowed himself since the Spirit Squad embraced him.

He and Finn stand like that for a while, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air. Maybe they’re caught in each other’s gravity. Their kite strings, entwined.

They don’t separate until Karen’s voice calls from the top of the stairs.

"Sean? Would you like to come inside?"

Sean nods, and walks up the staircase. Finn holds his hand the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not far now.


	10. moving on

Karen’s apartment is nicer on the inside. There are yellow curtains and vase of white daisies; no dishes piled up in the sink. It’s tidy, but not in Claire’s militant, neatly stacked way, with everything sorted by color and lined into rows—no, Karen simply doesn’t have a lot of stuff. Nothing to cling to. Nothing to leave behind.

Sean can tell that Finn has been living here for a while, though. Sean can practically see every step Finn’s taken in this apartment. There’s an open bag of chips on the couch, which is also where Finn has been sleeping; his shirts are draped over the cushions.

Daniel has his own room. The door is shut tight. Sean stares at it, even as Karen asks him if he wants anything to drink.

"I’m fine," Sean says. The damp soles of his socks feel strange against clean carpet.

"Are you hungry? Or, you can get cleaned up, before you…"

Sean thinks for a moment that she’s trying to be his mother, cramming ten years' worth of care into as little time as possible, but then he notices the familiar jangle of Karen’s hand. She isn’t concerned about Sean’s wellbeing; she’s giving him excuses to avoid Daniel.

Sean suddenly remembers Stephen, Karen’s father. How he always avoided fixing things—Claire’s kitchen and old drawers; a heavy, creaking cabinet in his office. Stephen put off fixing them for so long that the cabinet eventually fell on him, and Daniel had to use his powers to lift it.

"I’m fine, really," Sean says, watching Finn settle on the couch. He lays back and opens a book, but his eyes don’t move. He just stares at the page.

"Alright then…" Karen says. "I’ll just… um..."

She rolls her shoulders in a way Sean too easily recognizes. She doesn’t know what to do, too afraid to leave but longing to run.

"You don’t… have to stay," Sean says. He’s taller than her now. Fuck, that’s weird.

"Y-yeah? Because I was thinking I’d, um… run to the store. Pick up a few things."

"That sounds great," Sean says, half-smiling to himself. Maybe she’ll actually come back this time.

"Pizza!" Finn calls as Karen disappears out the door. After that, he goes silent, and Sean is left standing in Karen’s apartment, watching Finn pretend to read.

An inhale. Then three short steps, and a knock on Daniel’s door.

"Can I come in?" _It’s the big, bad brother_.

No response. Probably the best Sean can hope for right now.

The room he pushes into must have once been a photo studio; there’s a computer station and fancy printer, both pushed aside to make room for a twin-sized bed. There are toys on the floor and Aweso posters on the wall, but like Daniel’s clothes, they’re a little too crisp, a little too new and clean to look truly loved. They haven’t been hurt, but they also haven’t been cared for.

Daniel rises from the floor. Though there are toys at his feet, Daniel held them the same way Finn held his book; just pretending to play while he waited for the inevitable.

"Finn?" Daniel calls. He sounds slightly alarmed, as if Sean’s presence is enough to erase Finn’s.

"Yeah?" Shuffling in the living room, then Finn appears alongside Sean. "We cool here, little man?"

The door shuts behind Sean and Finn. No one touched it.

" _Shit_ …" The whisper leaves Sean on pure reflex. He regrets it at once—doesn’t want Daniel to think he’s scared. Or that he disapproves. But Daniel, of course, assumes both.

"Relax," he says, lip curling. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

" _Hey_ ," Finn hisses, surprising Sean, but Daniel twice as much. Sean watches Daniel’s eyebrows shoot upwards, then curve once more with annoyance.

" _What_?"

"Don’t talk like that! He’s your brother!"

"He lied to us! He tried to _separate_ us!"

Sean’s fingertips come together, barely touching, afraid of holding on too tight. "Daniel, listen—I fucked up. I was just scared. I wanted to… protect you."

His face feels hot. His heart, open and bleeding. But Daniel’s face isn’t loosening, his expression as hard and hateful as Sean has ever seen it.

"I shouldn’t have made you run. I should have _listened_ to you. I’m sorry, _enano_."

Daniel scoffs. "Whatever. I just wanted you to know that I’m staying here. Just go to Mexico and leave us alone."

This is what Sean expected before, when they first reunited on the baseball field. Hostility. Rejection. Blame laid at Sean’s feet—the weight of his choices finally come to bear.

But he’s not like Karen, hanging up the phone. He’s not like Claire either, locking everything behind a door, or Stephen, pretending that broken things will fix themselves. He’s not even Esteban, leaving himself out of the picture, cutting Karen’s parents from his life because it was too difficult to look at them, to play nice or get along.

It would have been hard for Karen to make that phone call. It would have been hard for Claire to open that door—for Stephen to pick up the pieces. It would have been even harder for Esteban to find middle ground with his in-laws, but he could have done it. _Should_ have done it, so his sons could have grandparents. A link to their mother. Love. Support. Treehouses.

If one of them— _any_ of them—had made that choice, done the hard, difficult, unpleasant thing—Sean and Daniel’s lives would have been better. But instead they allowed their pain to linger—a mess for their children to clean up.

It’s not fair. And it won’t be easy. But it stops here. With Sean.

"We’re not going to Mexico," he says. Daniel’s shoulders raise like the hackles of a dog.

" _I’m not leaving!_ "

"Neither am I," Sean promises. "I’m staying right here, with you."

Daniel looks away. His toys skitter across the floor, shaken by a tremor, an earthquake that begins at his feet.

"Maybe I don’t _want_ you to stay!"

Sean’s throat goes so tight and his chest feels so heavy, there might as well be a cabinet on top of him—one Daniel does not want to lift.

"I have Mom, and I have Finn. I don’t need anybody else." Daniel’s eyes are wet when he says, "You’re not my brother any more, Sean."

Sean recognizes the sharpness of Daniel’s tone; like he’s trying to cut Sean with his words, so that Sean will hurt as much as he hurts. But oddly enough, it’s Finn who reacts.

"Careful with that," he says softly. "Brothers are easy to lose—but they ain’t so easy to find."

"I don’t care," Daniel says, but that can’t possibly be true. He’s shaking too hard, his arms crossed as if to steady himself. He does care. He cares so much, he’s going to crumble from the weight of it.

It feels like an opening. A crack in the door. Sean takes a step forward, hand outstretched. He wants to wrap Daniel in a hug, hold him tight and tell him-

" _No!_ "

A burst of wind. It doesn’t knock Sean over or throw him back, but Daniel’s toys shoot outward, crashing against the wall. The bedroom door flies open, and Daniel jabs a finger at the empty portal.

"Just _go_ , Sean! Before you ruin everything!"

Sean doesn’t move. "Daniel, please."

"Go!" Daniel cries again. He raises a hand, arm outstretched between them. "Or I’ll _make_ you go!"

Sean takes a step forward—

And it’s like hitting a wall. A heavy, invisible, insurmountable wall. Sean pushes hard against it, toes digging into the carpet. He has to reach Daniel, but Daniel doesn’t want to be reached, his palm pressed flat against that unseen wall.

"Daniel!"

Finn rushes forward, but Daniel’s other hand shoots out, and suddenly Finn is caught in place too. Wind whips around them, jostling Daniel’s toys and blowing the blanket right off his bed. He presses forward with both palms and the wall expands outwards, driving Sean and Finn towards the door.

And oh god—Sean can see it. With one eye locked on Daniel, he can see fucking _everything_.

He can see himself at nine-years-old. Dad is crying, and Sean needs to be held every bit as much as his baby brother. Two little hands reach up for him, but Sean just stands there, an island, letting hate and anger brick him in.

He can see himself five months ago, grabbing Daniel by the arm. Shoving him out the door. Making him play outside by himself, even though Brett Foster is looking for trouble. Then Sean is bloodying Brett’s nose, pushing Brett to the ground—and feeling the intensity of Daniel’s scream as a bullet rips through their father.

He can see Daniel, tearing apart Merrill’s house. Daniel, playing grenades on a baseball field. Daniel, laughing like it’s a game; Chris, frightened and unsure. Chris, trembling on the other end of the phone. _He’s not okay, Sean. It’s… hard to explain_.

He can see Daniel, blowing up dumpsters.

Daniel, pushing his brothers away.

Daniel, a year from now, or five, or ten, leaving Karen, leaving Finn, because he never truly let them in. Because there’s a wound inside of him that the wall won’t let him heal; a door too painful to open, too difficult to fix. Daniel, wandering everywhere, wondering why nothing sticks, why his feet can’t stop moving and why he never feels safe.

Sean throws his whole weight into the wall. It hurts— _it fucking hurts_ , but he digs deeper, pushes harder. The sound of wind fills his ears, but the wall wavers. Sean makes a hard-won step towards Daniel.

"Daniel, please! Don’t push us away!"

Tears stream down Daniel’s face. His leans forward, pressing against that wall—but Sean keeps moving, keeps struggling forward.

"This isn’t what your powers are for!"

"They’re _my_ powers!" Daniel cries savagely. "And I _want_ —"

Another burst of wind. Sean slips backwards, loses his footing—

"— _everyone_ —"

Finn slams against the bedroom wall—Sean goes tumbling out the door—

"— _to leave me **alone**_!"

Sean hits the living room floor. All the breath leaves his lungs, but he hauls himself upright, hands raised to shield his face against the wind. He can still see Daniel in the bedroom, standing in the eye of a hurricane, his new toys and posters ripped from the walls, circling him wildly.

"What about Chris?!" Sean cries.

" _Shut up!_ "

"You saved him, _enano_! When he fell from his tree!" Sean takes a step forward. Then another. "You _saved_ him, and it brought you together!"

Every step is a struggle, each more difficult than the last.

" _That’s_ what your powers are for. They’re supposed to bring you closer to people, not drive them away."

Chris, falling towards the ground. Stephen, crushed beneath his cabinet. Finn, aimed beneath Merrill’s gun. Daniel’s powers saved them all. Daniel fixed what was broken, cleaned the mess he didn’t make, because that’s what heroes do.

Sean is closer now, stepping through the bedroom door—

"I know it hurts. And I know it’s scary. It’s easier to be angry—but I don’t want to live in a world filled with walls!" Sean blinks hard, his eye stinging from the threat of tears. "I don’t want to be alone anymore."

Daniel shakes his head, wordlessly pleading, terrified of what Sean is asking him to do. Terrified of being hurt again. Terrified of _hurting_. Terrified that he’ll take Sean’s other eye. That he’ll wake in the morning and find everything new and different, once again carried away in Sean’s arms.

Sean takes another step. His fingers stretch out, falling just short of Daniel’s hands. He’s close— _so_ — _close_ —

Daniel pulls back his hands and _thrusts_ them forward, shoving the wall towards Sean. Sean flies backward—

—and slams into Finn.

Finn steadies him. Keeps him upright against the storm. Pushes hard against his back, helping Sean forward, and suddenly each step is easier, _so much easier_.

"You got this, Super Bro."

Sean stretches again for Daniel. Fingertips brush open palms.

"Please, _enano_. Take my hand."

Tears. Sobs. Finn, pushing. Daniel, crying. Sean, pleading.

Dad, taking Daniel in one hand, and Sean in the other. _Mis hijos. No more fighting_.

Sean can’t promise there won’t be any more fighting. Can’t promise he’ll always be kind, or understanding, or mature.

But he’ll try.

He’ll fucking _try_. 

"No more goodbyes."

And Daniel—

                — _lunges_ —

                                —into Sean’s arms.

It’s a crushing, clinging hug, with trembling limbs and weak bones. Sean’s fingers ache as they grasp at Daniel. His nails are cracked and bloody, like he’s been tearing at bricks with bare hands.

Everything stops. Toys clatter as they hit the ground and the windowpane rattles to a standstill, no more disturbed by Daniel’s powers than a passing thunderstorm. Daniel buries his face in Sean’s chest and sobs out all his anger and grief. Finn does something similar to the nape of Sean’s neck, his arms wound tight around Sean and Daniel both.

Three brothers slump to the floor, exhausted and broken, but together. Three puzzle pieces no longer. Just one picture.

Whole.

Complete.

 

*

 

They’re in Arizona for a while. Long enough that Sean’s hair can finally cover his eyepatch. Sometimes, he pulls the rest of it into a tight bun, or a short ponytail, leaving just his left side concealed. He looks anime as fuck.

It’s not easy. It’s actually really fucking hard, especially in those moments when Sean looks at Daniel and sees Karen’s replacement kid. Her do-over. It’s like… Sean didn’t even matter, because Karen got to disappear for ten years and pick up right where she left off.

But when those moments come, he doesn’t cling to them. He lets them happen, lets himself feel all his anger and jealousy… and then lets it go. No more walls, trapping it in.

Karen doesn’t know about Daniel’s powers. He’s not comfortable sharing them with her just yet—doesn’t know how she’ll react. Sean says it’s up to Daniel—and he means it. The secret is Daniel’s to share, or not. Sean trusts his judgement. Or… at least, he’s trying to.

But they still train. Sean and Finn and Daniel—and Chris, by letter. He sends them training guides and mission assignments in the mail, with lots of drawings and new costume ideas. The Spirit Squad is always united.

They talk a lot about Daniel’s powers. Where they come from. How he should use them. What it means to be a hero. Sometimes, the answers are easy. Other times…

"If I had your powers, the day my brothers an’ I got busted… I’d’a torn those cops apart."

Finn stares at the sky, flat on his back beside Sean and Daniel in the Arizona desert. They’re watching the stars come out, one at time, little dots of light on a purple ceiling.

"I remember… hidin’ in the back’a that car…"

Finn hesitates. Daniel’s face is turned sideways, looking at Finn; Sean is the same, watching them both. But Finn just stares upwards, his arms a pillow beneath his head, and Sean wonders if this is Finn’s worst memory, the one he wouldn’t share around drifter’s campfire.

"I just wanted’a… run ‘em all over, get my brothers an’… start drivin’, an’ _keep_ drivin’. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the keys." His breath shakes. "But I _would’a_ done it. I know I would’ve."

"You _don’t_ know that," Sean whispers. Finn smirks.

"Yeah. I do."

"But… is that a bad thing?" Daniel asks, lying between Finn and Sean. "Is it wrong to want to save your brothers?"

"By killing all those cops?" Sean says.

"I’d have killed that cop to save Dad," Daniel says. "Does that… make me a bad guy?"

Sean doesn’t know how to answer. But maybe it’s good that Daniel asked the question.

And that’s how it goes, for a while. By day, homeschooling for Daniel, and odd jobs for Finn and Sean. Training and questions by evening, and by night… Sean lies on the floor next to Daniel’s bed, wishing he was with Finn.

It’s just like those few weeks they spent roaming Nevada with Daniel, except without… you know. Stolen kisses and steamy showers. There’s a closeness to their relationship, something intimate and unspoken; a look here, a smile there. Beers on the staircase. Finn laughs, and his hand falls on Sean’s thigh and stays there, like he’s forgotten. Like Sean never left.

But then Finn _does_ remember. Sean can actually see the realization spread across his face. And then his hand withdraws and they go inside. Finn, to the couch, and Sean to Daniel’s floor. And nothing ever changes.

It’s unsteady. Uncertain. And it can’t last forever.

Karen’s the first to bring it up. Not Sean and Finn’s relationship—no, she hasn’t mentioned that since she spoke to Sean at the bus stop. But she does remark on the instability of their arrangement. Asks what their plans are for the future.

"We need a place that’s gonna last," Finn says, and Sean realizes he’s said those words before. "Somewhere no one can find us."

Right. A place without the constant threat of danger. A place where the hunters will never look.

Sean turns towards Karen, bringing her out of his blind spot. She stares back at him, her expression strange and searching, like she isn’t sure that Sean will remember.

Of course he remembers.

"We’ll hide in the mist," he says.

 

*

 

"Mom, Dad! Look!"

Sean pushed his way onto the porch, where Esteban and Karen sat side-by-side, shoulder to shoulder. They seemed to be talking about something, but Sean didn’t care. He wedged himself between them; Dad shuffled to make room, but Karen sat still, reaching behind Sean’s back to grip Esteban once they settled.

"That looks great, _mijo_!" said Dad, meaning the piece of paper in Sean’s hands. "Is that us?"

"Yeah!"

Sean beamed at the drawing, so lovingly, painstakingly crafted. There wasn’t a single inch of that paper not covered in crayon; he just had so many ideas, so many beautiful thoughts and feelings he needed to scribble out on the page. Sometimes, Sean felt like he wasn’t big enough to contain all of his emotions, and feared there wasn’t enough canvas in the world to absorb it all.

In the center of the page, right under Esteban’s fingertip, Sean had sketched three figures. Two brown—one much smaller than the other—and one pink, with yellow hair stretched down to her waist. She looked different than other two, and not just because of her pale coloring; the brown figures had grey, dog-like ears sprouting from their black hair, as well as bushy tails and sharp claws.

"Why doesn’t _mamá_ have a tail?" asked Dad. Sean answered with a shrug.

"She’s not a wolf."

Karen made a sound of mock offense.

"Of course she is!" Dad laughed, and when Sean shrugged again, Dad bumped his shoulder. The motion rocked Karen as well. "Why can’t she be a wolf, _mijo_?"

Sean didn’t want to say, even though it was obvious. Everyone could see it. Maybe Dad couldn’t—he called Mom _loba_ , after all—but everyone else could. Their neighbors. Their friends. All those kids at school. And Sean—Sean most of all.

"She’s not from _Puerto Lobos_ ," Sean said at last. The place of wolves.

Dad looked at Karen over Sean’s head. With an air of excitement, he said, "You haven’t told him?!"

"I’m… not very good at telling stories," Mom said. Her arm slipped from around Sean and pulled into her own lap. She looked out across the lawn, knees pulled into her chest. She looked smaller then, almost curled into herself, like she was all alone, and not surrounded by family.

"Your _mamá—_ " Dad said, pulling Sean’s attention, "comes from _Wolfland_."

Karen might not have been very good at telling stories, but Esteban certainly was. His dark, mysterious tone captivated Sean at once. His eyes went round with fascination and confusion.

"Oregon?" Sean asked, thinking of rules and broken vases and Claire’s disapproving frown.

"Ireland," Karen said. Her tone was distant. Her gaze, even more so. Dad hummed in his throat.

"It was a whole country of wolves, _mijo_. Roaming the hills, wild and free."

"Until hunters came," Karen whispered. Sean’s brows shot upward.

"That only made the wolves more clever!" Dad insisted. "They had to be faster than the hunters, and find better places to hide. They’re still there, you know."

"The wolves?" Sean asked, hopeful.

"Mm. In the hills. In the mist. Where the hunters can’t see."

Sean turned to his mother. "Did _you_ see them?"

"I’ve never been there," Karen replied. Her gaze was still distant. Still sad. "I’ve never been anywhere."

Sean grabbed her arm.

"We’ll go someday!" he promised. "We’ll find the wolves!"

Karen look at Sean then. Her eyes focused, as if she could see could truly see him, right there in front of her.

And she smiled.

 

*

 

It rains a lot here. Just like Seattle.

The soil that made him.

It made Finn, too. Oddly enough, he faces the most difficulty at the gate, the last wall that separates the wolves from true freedom. The dock is crowded and disorganized, and no one really notices Sean, no one wants to question his paperwork or look him in the eye—but Finn is stopped by an outstretched hand.

"Says here you’re on parole."

Sean stares ahead, watching Karen and Daniel walk through the gate, already safe, already free, but he can hear the frown in Finn’s voice behind him.

"Not for a long time, friend. Check it again."

Shuffling papers. A long, agonizing pause.

"Ah, right. My apologies."

"We’re cool. Don’t worry ‘bout it."

"Welcome to Ireland, Mister… McNamara."

Sean can’t help but smile at how the attendant says Finn’s last name; like she’s been saying it all day. Maybe she has—Sean’s only been here five minutes and he’s already met two McNamaras and six Seans.

"Visiting family?" she asks.

Finn must be smiling too when he says, "Somethin’ like that."

And then he and Sean stand together, on the other side of that wall, staring out at… everything. Green hills. Houses piled up like stones. Grey, stormy sky.

The land of their ancestors.

"What do you think?" Sean asks, unable to tear his eye from the view, not even as ringed fingers lace through his own.

"I mean… it’s no beach house," Finn says. "But it’ll do."

 

*

 

"Fuck, _yes_! That’s the one."

Sean’s pen is still moving when Finn snatches up the sketch. He waves it at Daniel, who starts jumping with excitement.

"That’s _so cool_ , Finn! Can we show Chris?"

"Let’s wait ‘til after I get it done! We’ll send ‘im a pic. He’ll lose his fuckin’ _mind_!"

Sean beams, watching them. None of Sean’s drawings have made anyone this happy since… Since he doodled aliens, invading a Christmas market.

The sketch in Finn’s hands took over a month to create. Weeks of collaboration, hundreds of sketches, and dozens of letters from Chris. Sean carefully, patiently took pieces from all of them, and when his hand moved, the pen went where he wanted it to.

Drawing is… harder, than when he was a kid. Everything is. There are pieces of him that he’ll never get back, holes that will never stitch shut. It’s not fair, and it still hurts… but when he wakes up in the morning, there’s no struggle. The holes are a part of him. And he is no lesser for carrying them.

That sketch becomes a tattoo. A knife, running the length of Finn’s entire forearm, elbow to wrist. A reminder that Quick Knife is a hero, a member of the Spirit Squad.

 

*

 

Sean is running through a forest. The path is obscured by mist, but he doesn’t mind. He’s not running from anything, or to anywhere in particular. He’s just running for the stretch of his legs and the burn in his chest. He’s running because it feels good to make his heart pound and blood surge.

He’s like these trees. Rooted. Planted. But still growing, still moving. Trees never stay in one place—their branches always stretch upwards, while their roots dig deep into the earth.

Grey clouds roll in. Rain begins to fall; gentle, but steady. Sean’s not quite soaked by the time he rounds the path home, but his hair is damp, and his shoes, muddy.

Finn waves to him from the porch. He’s sitting sideways on the front steps, the way Karen sits on the couch, his back propped against the railing. Sean has to climb over him to escape the rain.

"Have fun?" Finn asks. He knocks back his beer and stares out at the rain.

"Yeah," Sean replies, breathing hard. He shucks off his shirt and uses it to dry his hair. It’s getting a little too long. Maybe he’ll ask Finn to cut it.

Finn pats the ground. _Have a seat. Have a beer_.

Sean tugs his shirt back on, but ditches his muddy shoes. He kicks them towards the welcome mat, and notices two pairs are missing.

"Where’s Daniel?"

"Out with his momma," Finn says. He stopped calling her Sean’s mother a while ago. "Movie, I think?"

Sean settles across from Finn, his back pressed against the opposite railing. Their knees bump together, meeting in the middle. "You didn’t want to go?"

"Nah. Got my favorite view right here."

He doesn’t mean Sean. He doesn’t even mean the green trees—he means the bottom of his beer can, which he rattles with a smile. He offers one to Sean, and for a long moment the two of them sit in silence, watching the rain and drinking.

The warm air. The sound of falling water. The smell of Sean’s own wet hair. It reminds Sean of those far-off days, when there were showers and uncertainty and… soft touches.

He’s happy where he is. Grateful for where his path led. But if he could go back, change just a few of those crucial steps…

Sean reaches into the rain, palm facing the sky. Water pools in his hand—which he flicks at Finn.

"You asshole!" Finn laughs. He slaps Sean’s knee, his hand lingering there, then settling. The smile on his face is as warm and bright as sunshine, and Sean can tell that Finn doesn’t remember yet. He’s forgotten that Sean left him, betrayed him, broke his heart—and when Finn _does_ remember, that smile wavers. His hand pulls back.

Sean catches his wrist.

Silence. The rain falls harder. Thunder rumbles in the distance and Sean should let go, but Finn hasn’t broken their eye contact, hasn’t tried to pull away.

"I wish…" Sean begins to say, but he doesn’t know how that sentence ends. He wishes a lot of things—how to pick just one?

Finn’s other hand, the one with his knife tattoo, grips Sean by the forearm.

"’Sokay," he whispers, expression full of remorse. "You always had the steerin’ wheel, baby. You said ‘stop,’ so it stopped."

Sean’s eye roams over that tattoo. He thinks about the choices that brought them here—and the choice that stands before them now. It’s a fork in the road, and Sean cannot choose the path alone. If they’re to move forward, they must walk together, side by side, step by step.

"I want… to be _with_ you," Sean says. He still doesn’t know what label to use, but it doesn’t matter, so long as he can say _Yes_ when Chris asks, _Do you ever kiss each other?_

Finn squeezes him tight. "What are you afraid of, then?"

Sean looks up into Finn’s eyes, and suddenly he can’t remember what, exactly, has been holding him back.

"Nothing."

Finn tugs him forward. Grasps his face between both hands. And when they kiss, it feels inevitable. It feels like coming home.

Sean exhales through his nose. It’s like he’s been holding his breath since he drove away from that motel. His hands run over Finn’s chest, Finn’s collar and throat, never stopping for more than a second. Sean wants to feel all of him—missed every inch of him. But most of Sean's attention is on their lips, moving slowly, pressing softly, fitting together like they’ve never been apart, like they’ve been doing this all along.

Sean crawls and shuffles until he’s straddling Finn’s waist. Finn’s arms form a loop around Sean’s middle, not clutching, not clinging, just loosely holding. All of Sean’s weight is in Finn’s lap and their dicks are agonizingly close, almost touching for the first time in ages. Sean wants to grind down, but he doesn’t. He needs this to last. He kisses Finn’s chin and brow and cheeks; then his throat, his jaw, the soft skin below his ear.

Finn makes a sound like he’s being tortured. His arms tighten around Sean’s waist, hands twisting in the fabric of his shirt, and when Sean leans back, he realizes that Finn’s eyelashes are wet.

Finn leans forward, burying his face in Sean’s neck like he’s ashamed. Like he can’t stand for Sean to see how much this means to him, how desperately he needs it.

"Please, baby…" he whispers, barely audible over the rain.

Fuck, he’s shaking. So is Sean. He doesn’t know why—they’ve done this before. Been here before. They’ve kissed and touched and shuddered and sighed, explored and tasted every inch of each other. But this feels… different. _They’re_ different. More open, somehow. Their jagged puzzle pieces always fit together, but now they’ve been smoothed into something far more gentle, something beautiful and sincere and terrifying.

"Yes," Sean exhales. He rolls his hips, rocking sweetly into Finn. " _Fuck_ yes…"

Sean kisses him again, savoring the sigh in Finn’s throat, mouth opening as if to taste it. Finn shifts beneath him, and Sean shifts too, expecting them to walk to Finn’s room— _their_ room?—hand in hand, but Finn grips Sean by the thighs, keeping him in place.

"Hang onta me, sweetie."

Sean gasps as Finn stands, lifting him off the porch. Sean’s legs wind around Finn’s waist; his arms, around Finn’s neck. He can’t believe how light he feels. His whole body goes soft against Finn, sinking into him completely and whining against his neck, because Sean can’t deny how good this feels, nor the childish need it sates in him, the longing that makes Sean rail against chainlink fences.

Finn carries him through the front door, and down the hall. Sean always knew how strong Finn was, but he never imagined how far these arms would carry him. They lifted him from the wreckage of Merrill’s house, carried him to safety, then halfway around the world. Now they lay him down on Finn’s mattress, and Sean aches so much he can’t stand it.

He trembles as Finn undresses him; trembles as _he_ undresses Finn. Rain patters against the window. The whole room looks blue and grey, like storm clouds rolling gently by. The sun, safely hidden. The wind, warm and wet.

Finn’s eyelashes are still damp. Sean sits on the edge of Finn’s bed, naked; Finn kneels on the floor between Sean’s legs and looks up at him, equally exposed. The expression on his face, the way he stares at Sean—it’s like he still isn’t worthy of this moment, like he’ll wake in the morning and Sean will be gone, driven away by the darkness Finn will never truly escape.

Sean takes Finn by the wrist. Stretches his forearm until the knife tattoo is exposed, and brushes his lips against it. He kisses the full length of it, from elbow to wrist, promising, reassuring. Finn is worthy of love, and Sean isn’t going to run.

Finn’s free hand settles on Sean’s thigh. His head bows—and his mouth closes over Sean’s dick.

And if Sean whined before, he outright _wails_ now. A pitiful cry escapes his throat and his fingers curl through Finn’s hair, almost folding over him. Fuck. _Fuck_ , Sean needs this.

He lays back, into the mattress, opening his legs wider. Finn moans in approval and the rumble of his throat sends shockwaves through Sean, so good and so achingly familiar that Sean feels like he’s being torn apart by pleasure, lovingly and mercilessly undone.

Finn takes Sean deep into his throat, tongue sliding, cheeks hollowing. While Sean shakes and sighs, Finn just moans, like this is all he needs, all he could ever ever want; just the sound of Sean’s voice and the taste of Sean’s cock.

It would be so easy to just stay like this—so tempting, too, because if Sean speaks, this feeling will stop. He’ll have to leave the good, tight heat of Finn’s mouth, and rearrange himself on the mattress. But he wants— He _needs_ —

"Finn."

Finn pulls away, and the separation is every bit as painful as Sean feared.

"I want you inside of me."

Another sound of approval. Finn bites his lip, and reaches for a drawer at the bedside, where he keeps his weed and condoms and lube. Sean flushes, and once more grabs Finn by the wrist.

"Could you…" Sean’s face is burning. He’ll probably never outgrow his shyness, his innate fear of rejection. "Could you… c-come… inside of me?"

And Finn, as always, forgives Sean’s hesitation. Meets him with nothing but warmth and support. He kisses the fingers curled around his wrist.

"C’mere, sweetheart…"

They shift across the mattress, Sean flat on his back, knees bent and ass exposed. Finn rubs lube around Sean’s twitching, eager hole and slips his middle finger inside.

Yes. Fucking _finally_.

Finn opens him like a book, and explores him just as carefully. Not a book he skips to the middle of, but a book he doesn’t want to end, each word savored, each page carefully annotated and adored. And when Finn sighs, it’s like he’s quoting his favorite lines, reading Sean’s body aloud like poetry.

Sean sobs from hard he is, loving this, hating this, certain he’ll die of this. His heart so full he can feel it expanding, building new chambers he didn’t used to have room for, not with the wall closing him in. He shudders against the mattress, shaken by wave after wave of pleasure, and when Finn finally enters him, Sean is so open, so receptive, there’s no resistance at all.

"Finn."

"I know."

"Finn-"

"I know, sweetie."

He stares into Sean’s single eye, overflowing with so much love that Sean’s heart stops. Finn doesn’t even _see_ the missing piece. All he sees is Sean, _everything_ that is Sean, and if Sean lost more pieces it wouldn’t matter, because Sean can never be less than himself.

Sean’s throat is dry. His lips, swollen from kisses. But he presses their mouths together anyway, and soon there’s nothing but the rock of Finn’s hips and the slow drag of Finn’s cock; Sean’s ass clenching tight around him and hips rising off the mattress.

Sean loves this. Could never forget this. Doesn’t need a pen or paper remember this; how Finn pushes into him and pulls out again; how Finn fills and fucks him. Finn grinds, and Finn rolls, and Sean wraps his legs around Finn’s waist and arches into him. Finns thrusts long and Finn thrusts deep. Finn thrusts hard and Finn barely thrusts at all, just rocking, and sliding, and kissing—and tears slip down Sean’s cheek because he’s never been so loved, nor so incandescently happy.

The pleasure builds and it builds, tight and terrible, sharp and sweet. Sean cries out—his dick pulses between them, splattering his chest—and Finn’s, too. Sean sobs from the intensity of it, still shaking, still shuddering, his whole body on fire, his entire existence a small, tender, treasured flame; the lighter in his pocket; a campfire beneath old, towering trees.

Finn shudders, too, exhaling hard against Sean. His cock throbs inside Sean’s ass, and Sean is suddenly filled with warmth. It feels strange but wonderful, taking everything Finn has, letting Finn pour into him like ink on bare skin, a drawing he wants to keep.

Sean could stay like this— _does_ stay like this, for a very long time. He enjoys every small sensation; his dick, throbbing against his belly; Finn’s dick, going soft in his ass. Finn, pulling out gently; Finn’s cum, seeping out of him. Finn, kissing him slowly; slowly kissing Finn right back.

"Would it be… completely lame… if I went to sleep?" Sean asks, curling into Finn’s chest. Finn’s arm falls heavily around him.

"Nah. I might just do the same." Finn brushes back Sean’s bangs, exposing his eyepatch, and presses a kiss to his brow. "Either way… I’ll be here when you wake up."

Sean lets out a soft laugh. He didn’t really doubt it—but it’s nice to hear anyway. He realizes that neither of them had to say _stay with me_ this time—Sean didn’t spiral into anxiety, and Finn wasn’t trapped in the memory of a cold tent. They were both here, in this moment, caught in each other’s arms.

The mattress creaks with the shift of Finn’s weight, pulling Sean closer, holding him tighter. Sean can’t remember the last time a bed felt this good, this right. He’s slept a lot of places since he left Seattle; under bridges, under trees, in abandoned houses and dirty motels and his grandmother’s guest room—but he’s never been able to rest.

That’s what he’s been searching for. A place to lie down. Not a place to die, but a place to sleep, truly sleep. A place to plant himself and grow; limbs stretching up, roots stretching down. A place to remember, to fit,  to finally belong, where his choices can pile up like rings inside a tree trunk.

He has that now. He has that _here_.

And Sean isn’t going anywhere.

*

 

_Every road leads to an end.  
Yes, every road leads to an end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't sleep very well. I just never really got the hang of it, not even when I was kid. It's one of my missing pieces.
> 
> So I believe, I truly believe, that the places we rest—and the people we choose lie beside—are significant. There's a lot of that in this story. Sean, choosing to lie beside Finn in that first motel. Chris, sleeping in his mother's old room. Finn, banished to his own solitary tent. Sean, absconding with Daniel in the night; Sean, longing to collapse on Karen's doorstep; Sean and Finn, together at last, choosing to lie side by side. Not a place to die, but a place to finally, finally, finally sleep.
> 
> I hope their eventual destination—Ireland—doesn't feel too outlandish. Ireland has a fascinating history with wolves—it really was once called Wolfland, because it had more wolves than people, until they were hunted into extinction. There was even a point where Ireland was so synonymous with wolves that Shakespaere wrote about it: "'Tis like the howling of Irish wolves." I thought it would be cool to take Sean there; I felt it tied in well to LiS2's theme of Sean's search for "the land of his ancestors."
> 
> This fic has been such a journey, and I'm incredibly grateful for everyone who came on it with me—everyone who's been with me since the beginning, everyone who joined mid-step, and everyone who will discover this fic down the road. I want to hear from (and will reply to!) all of you! I've been so touched by your encouragement and moved by your personal stories. I already know that I'm going to treasure this fanfic, and your comments, for a very long time. Thank you. With all my heart, thank you.
> 
> Special shout-out to the Sean/Finn Discord server for being there for me and uplifting me, and crying with me! You're all amazing and I can't believe how thoroughly I've been embraced by this fandom!
> 
> Gosh, what else? I don't know. I just don't want this to end! I guess... I hope I did right by these characters. I know that the real story of LiS2 will be nothing like this, but I hope this fanfic feels genuine, and that if canon doesn't do right by Sean or Finn or Chris or Daniel, you can find solace here, as I have. I hope, now that you've reached the end, these characters feel healed. That's all I wanted. From the very first step, that's all I really wanted. I couldn't replace their missing pieces, but I maybe I could make them see that the picture is still complete. The holes, the jagged edges are what allow us to fit together, to find connection—and even though tearing down our walls is the most difficult, most painful thing we'll ever do, the struggle is worth it. Without those walls, we're free. We can stop running. We can move on. We can rest. We can grow.
> 
> Thank you again, all of you. You are enough. You have always been, and will always be enough.


End file.
